Nothing Left to Lose
by Midasgirl
Summary: Set directly after Susan Kay's Phantom ... Raoul begins to show his true colours, Christine wonders whether she's made the right decision, and Erik? Well ...
1. Living with Shadows

HTML1DocumentEncodingwindows-1252GeneratorMicrosoft Works 4.0Nothing Left To Lose

Disclaimer; Christine, Erik and Raoul all belong to Gaston Leroux. The story from which I'm carrying on and Nadir belong to Susan Kay.

A/N - This is set directly after Susan Kay's Phantom, so there are spoilers throughout. If you haven't read Kay's version you may want to go away and read it before attempting to read this; I'm not saying you won't understand it but you will definitely enjoy it more if you know the story I'm going from.

Please r/r, this is my first chapter story and I need to know if you want me to continue it!

Love peace and cookies

Cat a.k.a. Midasgirl

P.S. Thank you to everyone who reviewed my previous story "It's Over now the Music of the Night", you guys are what keep me going!

This story is for Beki, the best friend anyone could ever have - but for her, this story would probably never have made it into publication.

"_If my life were important I would ask will I live or die_

But I know the answers lie far from this world ..."

Tim Rice,_ Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat_

Christine

"Don't be ridiculous, Christine!" he said, staring at me with the utmost incredulity. "What would he do with the invitation, even if we did somehow manage to get it to him?" Then, seeing that this angle was having no effect whatsoever, he changed tack, his voice becoming softer, more persuasive. "It will only give him more pain, to see it down there in writing ... you don't want to hurt him even more, do you?"

He had drawn closer to me, and now he put his arms around me, pulling me close, brushing a kiss against my hair.

"It's all right," he told me softly. "It's all over ... you don't have to be afraid anymore."

I pulled away from him, suddenly furiously angry.

"I'm not afraid!" I cried, trembling with unladylike rage. "Damn it, Raoul, I have nothing to be afraid of! He's going to die, can't you understand that? The very least I can do is to honour the last promise I ever made him, God knows I broke enough before that!"

He reached out to touch me, but I struck out blindly, batting his hand away.

"Don't!" 

He stopped short, taking a step back.

"Christine, I really don't know what's come over you lately," he said coldly, suddenly very much the noble husband taking charge of an errant wife.

"Over me?!" I shrieked, fully aware that I was getting hysterical. I drew a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm myself, and tried to speak slowly, measuring my words.

"Raoul. I'm going to take him this letter. Now. And you're not going to stop me!"

"Yes, I bloody am!" he thundered, reaching out and grabbing my wrist.

I struck out blindly, trying to fend him off, but he grabbed wildly at my shoulder in an attempt to restrain me. I lashed out, accidentally catching him on the cheek. My hands flew to my mouth in horror as I realised what I'd done - I took a step back as I saw his eyes widen in absolute fury, then felt his fist connect hard with the side of my head.

I fell sideways from the sheer force of the blow, catching my head against the dresser as I did so and feeling a sudden sharp pain tear through my skull.

I reached up dazedly to touch my head, and my fingers came away red and sticky. Blood. I was bleeding?

The thought solidified slowly, condensing in my mind ...

__

Raoul hit me.

Then he was at my side, tears streaming down his face as he fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief and held it to my head to stop the blood. 

"Oh, my God ... oh Christine ... my darling, oh _Christine!_ My darling, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry ..."

Sitting crumpled together on the floor, we cried together, and, wrapping me in his arms, he swore it would never happen again, and I believed him. 

I loved him ...

The next way, I made my solitary, but determined way, back to the Opera House. Raoul had offered to come with me - he had treated me like blown glass since yesterday - but I had decided it would be cruel and unnecessary to parade Raoul and our happiness in front of Erik, and besides, I no longer felt in need of protection.

I let myself into Erik's house with the key I had not yet returned from the Rue Scribe entrance - I didn't fancy my chances of rowing the boat all the way across the lake in the dark.

Turning to close the door carefully behind me, I heard a noise behind me and whirled round with a sudden panic.

It took me a moment to place the man who stood before me, shock etched just as clearly on his features as I was sure it was on my own. Then it clicked: the Persian daroga, Nadir something ...

And as the shock faded from his eyes, it was replaced by an expression which showed me just how displeased he was by my presence ...

Nadir

That girl. That _damned_ girl! Hadn't she done enough damage? Would it really have been so hard for her just to leave him in peace to restore a little of his shattered self-belief?

Suddenly aware that I was glaring at her, I forced myself to rearrange my features into an expression of courtesy, if not of welcome.

"Mlle. Daae ..." I said coolly, making a small bow.

She smiled weakly, a smile which didn't reach her eyes and showed me how shocked she was - she was probably just as surprised to see me as I was to see her, I reflected ironically. My open hostility had unnerved her, and she looked nervous, her fingers twisting helplessly in a fold of her heavy skirts.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then changed her mind. She looked at me hopelessly for a few moments, then, as I raised my eyebrows slightly, she plunged in with the request I had known must be coming.

"May I see him?" 

She sounded almost as if she expected me to refuse her ... as if I could ...

"By all means," I said, gesturing for her to follow me into the drawing room.

I tapped lightly at the door and pushed it open without waiting for a reply. Erik was seated at the couch with his back to us, caressing a small ball of fur with surprising gentleness. I recognised it as the kitten he had rescued from a group of streetboys several days previously and with which he had been up with day and night ever since despite my instructions that he must not ignore his fragile health so brazenly.

I cleared my throat, suddenly apprehensive.

"Erik ..."

"You know, Nadir, I think she's going to make it," he said without looking up. This had become typical of him; focusing his entire being on one aspect of his depleted life and refusing to allow anything else to enter his sphere until the task was completed. It was his way of avoiding reality ...

He had also developed the irritating habit of becoming selectively deaf whenever the topic of conversation ventured anywhere near his health, the workings of the Opera Ghost, or the girl who stood nervously next to me in the doorway.

She took an unsteady step forward.

"Erik ..." 

His entire body stiffened and the shock jolted through him like a bolt of lightning, causing his head to snap up as if he couldn't believe the feeble evidence of his ears. His eyes, widening in shock, fixed on her as his hands fell from the kitten, ignoring the pitiful whine which escaped it. He rose instantly, reaching out to the table to steady himself, trying to look unconcerned, as if things like this happened to him every day of the week, and failing miserably.

For the first time in all the years I have known him, he appeared entirely lost for words.

"My dear ..."

He took an unsteady step towards her, recovering a little of his composure and taking refuge behind a wall of perfect courtesy.

"To what may we attribute this pleasure?"

I heard the hope quiver in his voice, and groaned silently; whatever purpose the girl had returned for, I was sure it wasn't anything which would make him anything less than truly wretched yet again. Ungenerous? Perhaps ... but cruelly accurate.

She held out a small white envelope, suddenly looking ready to cry, and I saw his eyes crinkle in confusion for a moment, before a wave of understanding swept over him and his shoulders lowered slightly.

An envelope? I searched my mind for any significance ... of course! The ill-fated wedding invitation he had requested of her ... the promise he had been so excruciatingly sure she would not adhere to.

He took the envelope from her, avoiding her fingers and withdrawing his hand without touching her.

He slipped his fingers under the flap of the envelope and withdrew the stiff white card engraved with elaborate gold lettering. He studied it for a moment, his face set and expressionless, then it disappeared with hardly a motion of his wrist.

He looked back at her, his face still resolutely devoid of emotion.

"Thank you, my dear," he said very quietly.

She smiled weakly, then looked down at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

There was silence for a moment, then I heard his voice rise in alarm.

"Christine ..."

It was the first time he had addressed her by name and I could she was as caught as I was by the rising current of fear in his voice.

He took a step towards her, motioning that she should tilt her head back slightly; she did so with an expression of nervousness. He inspected her left temple for a moment, still without touching her, then took a step back and fixed her with a look of stony questioning, the one visible eyebrow raised slightly.

I looked closer, and realised that the skin around that area was badly bruised, a fact she had evidently tried to conceal with makeup; I had noticed nothing, but of course Erik's eagle eyes would take in every curve of her face, memorising every contour before she left him again.

"Where would you come by such injuries, child?" he asked, no longer formally polite but with an almost paternal seriousness which made evading the question quite impossible.

She ducked her head, avoiding his eyes, and shrugged helplessly.

There was silence for a moment, in which time he regarded her gravely, then his voice came again, this time with a dangerous edge to it which I feared could explode with all the force of a powder keg should the wrong lever be pressed.

"Did he hit you? Is that it?"

My head snapped up. Surely not ... her fiancé was a Chagny, an old and revered family ... that he should have struck her was entirely incomprehensible.

But the look on Christine's face said it all; the stricken look of abject misery would have told the most dim-witted of spectators the ugly truth; no hope of her lying to Erik on this one.

He swore violently in Persian, hardly even troubling to lower his voice, and began to pace the room with all the barely-leashed power and dangerous ferocity of a wild cat, retaining his natural grace even in his scarcely-controlled rage.

Christine knelt down, looking absolutely terrified. I wasn't surprised; the look of black passion on Erik's face could have split a block of marble straight down the middle, and I wasn't even sure that he was still aware of our presence in the room.

He drew a deep breath, slowly retreating from the madness which had threatened to claim him, and clenched his long fingers around the back of a chair with a force fit to splinter the wood. He took a deep, shuddering breath and I was suddenly struck with the uncomfortable feeling that he was on the verge of tears. 

He turned back to Christine, and touched her lightly on the head, causing her to look up at him with a tear-stained face. _She'd been crying?_

"Do get up, my dear," he said gently, offering her his hand to help her rise. He helped her to her feet, then turned away from her and moved across the room again, touching his fingertips lightly to a painting.

"How many times has he hit you, my dear?" he asked without turning around.

Christine took a step forward, suddenly animated.

"Only once, Erik, and oh, Erik, it wasn't even that hard, and he was so sorry afterwards ..."

At this, Erik swung back to her, staring at her in utter silence with such unsettling contempt that her voice trailed away.

"Not very hard?" he asked, a note of thunder behind the deceptively calm tones.

She shook her head mutely, suddenly looking afraid again.

"Not so hard that you felt you had to try to conceal the marks from me? Not so hard that he made you bleed as you fell?!" Regaining a little control, he added, "Very bad idea, by the way - putting makeup or other toxins over the top of a wound like that creates a heightened risk of infection and may well inflame the skin and slow down the healing process."

She looked dumbly at him, confused by the sudden change of attack.

Erik looked back at her, and suddenly he softened and moved towards her, all anger gone as a curious softness came into his eyes which I had only ever seen before when he looked at that wretched cat of his, Ayesha.

"My apologies," he said very quietly. "Forgive me." 

Christine looked at him, her eyes welling with tears. She nodded silently as the tears spilled over and she began to weep in earnest.

Hesitantly, he reached out and touched her gently on the cheek, an action of gentle, almost fatherly affection which only made her cry even harder, her hands fluttering over her face in a thoroughly inadequate attempt to cover her emotion. 

Silently he produced a handkerchief out of thin air and handed it to her; still unable to speak, she nodded her thanks and rubbed it savagely over her face with a gesture of impotent frustration at her own weakness which reminded me strongly of Erik himself.

He took a step towards her and, with gentle, elegant motions of his hands, but still no physical contact, guided her to one of the two armchairs and stood a little way off until she could regain control over herself.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice still trembling with emotion. "It's just ..."

Erik's voice was surprisingly gentle. "I know."

As if suddenly returning to her senses, she rose hastily and smoothed down her skirts.

"I should go," she said uncomfortably.

Only the slight trembling of Erik's hands as he reached out to hand her her cloak betrayed the fierce storm of emotion which I was sure was currently raging through him; his face, as always, wore a look of studied indifference and his manners were as courteously polite as ever.

My heart ached for the pair of them as they stood awkwardly apart; the stubborn pride of Erik and wavering indecision of Christine hanging between them like a cloud, this couple who were made to be together and lacked the ability to recognise it. 

I knew how badly he wanted her; it was written in every line of his stiff, unbending figure, every word he spoke fraught with agony ... and Christine, naive, innocent child that she still essentially was, hadn't noticed, didn't realise. She hadn't noticed the way he had turned his body ever so slightly away from her, hadn't noticed how tightly he was holding himself; hadn't even noticed the clenching and unclenching of his fists as he fought in vain to regain control over himself.

How could she not see? How could she not see the massive effort this one lonely man to whom she meant the world was forcing himself to make despite all his natural instincts, while she stood and wordlessly defended an utterly unworthy young man who had struck her in a moment of anger?

The cruel irony of the entire hopeless situation made me choke, and suddenly I just wanted to be out of the room and as far away from both Erik and Christine Daae as was possible; to whirlwind back in time when the moment of madness never happened, where Stephen Daae had lived and Christine had never entered Erik's life in search of an Angel and turned it upside down ...

I left the room silently, closing the door behind me.

Erik

He hit her. I honestly cannot believe it. That damnable boy! How dare he?! My God, for all I ever did to her, I never touched her against her will ... I will kill him. I will.

I thought I was hallucinating when she first came in; descending further down the road to insanity, now I was hearing her voice when only Nadir was there? But I looked up - I had to look up - and she was there ...

My God! I thought I was going to faint - only willpower and a convenient table stopped me from doing so ... I still can't believe she came back. I didn't think she would keep her promise ... I didn't think he'd let her!

After Nadir left us - truth be told, I had forgotten he was in the room - we stood in awkward silence for a moment before she made her unusually clumsy way to the door and fumbled at the handle.

"Christine ..."

The sound of my voice made her turn and look back at me; she was crying again, a fact I tried not to read too much into.

I suddenly found I couldn't say what I wanted to; an endless discharge of farcical, emotional rubbish from which she would still run ...

I couldn't break that final barrier, so I looked helplessly at her for the last time, and said, very softly,

"Take care of yourself."

She nodded wordlessly, biting her lip as she tried - and failed - to control her tears.

I turned away, unable to look at her any longer, and heard the soft click of the door as she closed it behind her.

I couldn't stay in the house, there was suddenly no air - I needed to be outside! It was late enough ... most people would have retreated home by this time ... 

Nadir looked up in alarm as I left the drawing room, dressed to go out.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, sounding worried. 

"Out," I replied curtly. I didn't fancy a long, in-depth analysis of Christine's visit ... I didn't want to share her! Not even with Nadir.

"Evidently," he said drily. "Where?"

"I don't believe that's any of your concern, daroga," I said coldly, lapsing into the old contempt I had shown him during the first short months of our acquaintance. I hadn't called him daroga in years ...

He rolled his eyes. "Erik ... don't go to her house. You'll only make it worse."

"I'm sorry," I said acidly. "I think we must be at crossed purposes. I have no idea to what you are referring."

He rose and walked slowly across the room, until he was facing me.

"Erik ..." 

He seemed lost for words, and suddenly I felt a hot wave of shame. His constant presence in the house since Christine's first departure had been comforting, despite my frequent complaints that I was not a child and required my privacy ... Nadir had been a good friend to me.

"Don't do anything you'll regret, Erik," he said slowly, his eyes never leaving my face.

I laughed shortly.

"Regret?" I turned away from him, hating the way my voice sounded, so bitter and resentful. "My life has been one long regret."

And with that, I left the house, hating myself, hating the feeling of intense guilt that Nadir's eyes boring into my back brought as he stood and silently watched me leave.

To be continued ...


	2. Dancing in the Darkness

Nothing Left to Lose

Dancing in the Darkness

A/N - This chapter ventures away from Christine and focuses pretty intensely on Erik's mental state ... but don't worry, it'll help him exorcise a few demons. :)

Big thanks to Myotismon13, Avelera, Felicia, T'Res, T'eyla Minh, Maya :), angela, Sara, AnandaStarChild and Chanita for reviewing the first chapter (*cyber hugs*) 

(Avelera, I do take your point about Erik being more of a father to her by the end, and that actually becomes pretty important in later chapters but in my point of view he is still very much in love with her ... sorry if that's different to anyone else's take on it!)

Lily (no, don't worry, it's not turning into another woman story :p)

It was cold, so cold. _I hate this country!_ I thought miserably. _I hate this country and I hate having to degrade myself in this bloody manner ..._ It was so damned cold, and anyone who had betrayed a passing interest in me so far had left in disgust as soon as they discovered how bad my French was. _Why am I here?!_ I wailed to myself. How had I come this far; from the daughter of one of the most respectable families in England to just another cheap whore trying to make a living out of her body on the Rue Scribe? And failing miserably, I might add. I hadn't eaten for at least three days, and the lack of food was starting to bring on dizzy spells to match the empty feeling in my stomach.

And it was so cold. No one had come along for hours ... I'd never thought it would be this hard!

And then, suddenly, he was there ... 

Wandering aimlessly down the street, paying no attention to where he was going or what he was doing, his shoulders heaving and the most beautiful cloak swirling around his thin body. He didn't look very promising ... but God knows I wasn't spoilt for choice and I couldn't afford to be picky.

He hadn't seen me, so I ran after him as fast as the ludicrously high heeled shoes I wore would allow.

"Monsieur!"

He whirled around at the speed of lightning, his hands automatically rising as if readying himself for a fight. I wondered fleetingly what had happened to make him so wary, but the thought was cut off as I let out my breath in an involuntary gasp of shock. The right side of his face was covered with an expressionless white - it couldn't be! A mask? In this day and age? 

Despite my initial shock at the mask, I found myself captivated. His every motion was so graceful, almost like a cat ... more sensual than any man I'd ever met before.

Suddenly aware that I was staring, I adopted my most provocative pose, pouting up at him with heavily glossed lips.

"Monsieur ... je suis ..."

I swore at myself. I still hadn't figured out what the hell to say to attract men. The tutor to whose unfortunate lot it had fallen to attempt to teach me French had - somewhat unsurprisingly - never taught me the phrases one would need in order to become a successful prostitute.

"You are English, yes?" he said slowly, as if he hadn't spoken my native tongue for a long time and was still remembering the correct phrasing. I nearly fell over with shock and relief. Finally, a client who spoke my language! But his voice ... soft and gentle, it was almost unbelievably beautiful. Who _was_ he ...?

"Yes!" I said, thanking God for this strange phantasm who looked ready to be my first paying customer. I took a step closer to him, expecting some sort of reaction, but ... nothing.

He turned away, and I was filled with a fresh surge of desperation. He couldn't go! My God, I'd starve to death if I didn't start earning soon ...

"Please, monsieur!" I begged, catching hold of his cloak and pulling him back. "I'm very reasonable ..."

He looked at me, the eyes behind the mask strangely sad. I held my breath.

Slowly, never taking his eyes off my face, he produced a purse, seemingly from thin air, and held it out. I accepted it with a faint sigh of relief, then let out an involuntary gasp at its weight. My God, there must have been over a hundred francs there! I looked up at him, suddenly afraid. What would a man expect for such an exorbitant sum of money?

"Monsieur," I whispered, lost for words.

He smiled sadly, as if looking at a favourite daughter, and turned away. Electricity crackled through my brain - _he's leaving?_ Impossible - he'd paid for my services and now he wasn't even going to collect? Instinct said let him go - you've got the money without even having to perform - but something more human in me said don't. Suddenly, I could hear my grandfather's voice in my head, as clear as if he were standing right beside me;

"Always pay what you owe, my dear ... you'll always pay for it in the end, in this life or the next."

"Monsieur!" I called, hurrying after him.

"I ..." I stopped, feeling myself go scarlet. I might be in France ... but I was still the well-brought up daughter of Robert Hammerstein and I had no idea how to go about offering myself to a man ... a man whose name I didn't even know!

I could feel his eyes on me, questioning, and all of a sudden I wanted to die of shame.

"I don't even know your name," I finished weakly.

He looked at me for a long moment, during which I realised I was holding my breath, then said, very softly,

"My name is of little consequence. Take the money. You must eat soon."

Despite the beauty of his voice, his sentences were oddly disjointed and overly short, as though he wasn't really paying attention.

"Are you married, monsieur?" I demanded suddenly, aware even as I said it what a grossly impertinent thing it was to ask, but some strange greater will seemed to have taken me over ... _I had to know more!_

His head came up sharply and he stared at me with an expression I couldn't quite fathom, halfway between soul-wrenching grief and amazement at my impudence.

"No ..." he said, very quietly. "No, I am not married."

He closed his eyes for a moment, then drew a deep, shuddering breath and turned away from me.

I moved after him again, but this time he turned on me with eyes blazing with sudden anger as he wrenched his cloak out of my grasp.

"My God, child!"

The anger in his voice was unmistakable, and suddenly I was afraid ... it was the same anger which used to explode into Father's voice before he would take his cane to me ...

I backed away, my hands automatically rising in a gesture of self-defence - God knows why, I'd learnt the hard way how thoroughly ineffective it was - paying no attention to anything but putting distance in between us ... until I tripped. I landed hard on my side, involuntarily crying out as a sharp pain shot through me.

He was at my side instantly, the expression on his face somewhere between alarm and contrition. I tried to back away from him, but the pain made me cry out and abandon the attempt. Through the haze of pain, I felt his long fingers efficiently exploring my ankle, which had already started to swell, and faintly heard him asking briskly,

"Can you move your leg?"

I nodded breathlessly.

He sat back, looking satisfied. "Good. Your hip will probably be a little bruised tomorrow, and your ankle is slightly sprained, but nothing that a few days' rest won't take care of."

Had I retained a little more control over my faculties, I might have wondered at the irony that it took an injury to arouse any interest of any kind in him. As it was, I was too upset to think about anything other than the bombshell he had just dropped - _a few days' rest?!_

"How the hell am I supposed to manage that?" I exploded, all the desperation of the past week condensing into anger and frustration at the one person who had shown me any kindness at all since my ill-fated arrival in this God-forsaken country.

He shrugged slightly.

"It would appear to me," he said with infuriating calm, "that you have no choice. Do you seriously believe that you can work in this state?"

"Yes!" I said defensively, standing up and glaring at him.

The pain shot through my ankle again, making me collapse with an involuntary yelp of pain. He caught me before I hit the ground, gently settling me onto the pavement with care not to catch my ankle as he did so.

"Get off me!" I snapped peevishly, uncomfortably aware that I was beginning to sound like a complete brat.

He took a step back, the eyes behind the mask oddly registering neither anger nor contempt, but a strange sadness and pity.

"Would you like me to escort you to a hotel?" he asked courteously.

"No!" I snapped. 

He made no movement.

"That is of course your prerogative," he said calmly.

He turned and began to walk slowly away, sinking back into the melancholy which had claimed him before I first approached him, and I was suddenly struck with a wild panic and contrition for my insolence.

"Wait!" I called desperately, fully aware that if he chose to ignore me and leave now I could have no hope of stopping him. I wasn't even sure I could stand ...

He turned slowly, his eyes glittering behind the mask. He raised one eyebrow and looked at me questioningly. I was filled with the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he didn't see me as a person at all; merely another victim of the world, and felt nothing for me but pity.

"Please ..." I murmured without clear reason.

He moved slowly back towards me, and stopped a few paces short of me, standing above me like a great black shadow, the edges of his cloak billowing out in the wind.

I beckoned to him to come closer, and warily he did so, moving slowly and keeping his eyes fixed on me as if suspecting a trick. For some reason, I suddenly felt absurdly hurt by this ...

"Does your ankle hurt?" he asked.

I nodded silently, fully aware how stupid I must look.

He knelt down beside me and took hold of my ankle with gentle but firm hands and, inappropriate though the touch would have been from any other man, he had an aura around him which, coupled with his quiet professional competence, made me trust him where I might not have trusted another.

Producing a thin strip of material, seemingly from thin air, he proceeded to wrap my ankle with such gentle hands that I hardly felt his touch at all.

When he had finished, he looked up at me for my reaction, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

"That's better, thank you," I mumbled inanely, and then suddenly it came to me in a lightning flash of clarity what had been bothering me about this strange apparition ... as if in a dream, I reached out and pulled away the mask with sure fingers with a sudden senseless desire to know what lay beneath it. 

__

Oh my God!

For a moment, I sat frozen, paralysed by the impossible horror of the sight which lay before me ... then I became aware of someone screaming; a high, shrill sound of terror ... and realised that the sound was coming from my own throat. In a desperate bid to get away from it, I covered my eyes and tried to pull myself upright; the pain shot through me once again but I didn't care - anything to get away from that face!

I realised I was still screaming as he reached towards me, his long fingers almost touching me ...

And then I slid into merciful oblivion as the darkness enveloped me.

When I came to, he was gone.

Erik

My God. My God! When will I learn to keep away from people? When she started screaming I could have killed her ... the unspeakable humiliation was nothing in comparison to the pain ... the unimaginable pain and grief! The last girl to unmask me had almost died for her trouble ...

It wasn't her screams that drove me almost to breaking point; I've faced enough people who react in similar ways to be - almost - immune to them by now. It was the flashbacks ... the flashbacks that almost broke me in two, the unbearable memories of the last pretty child to unmask me ...

I wanted to die. I staggered away from her, my hands over my ears ... anything to shut out her demented terror ... suddenly I had an overwhelming longing to be back home, safe underground, where blackness can envelope you and, if you try hard enough, you can almost convinve yourself you aren't really there!

I remember, I once told Christine "In the dark it is easy to pretend that the truth is what it ought to be ..." and I never spoke a truer word to her. She didn't understand, of course ... those were her last blissful moments of ignorance before she plunged headlong into the hell I had condemned us both to and her innocence was forever lost at her first sight of me ...

I can't do this anymore. I'm too old to endure anything like this, the scar tissue has been ripped open too many times, I can't just bandage the wound and forget about it as I could when I was young!

__

You can't teach an old dog new tricks ...

Morphia, alcohol, music ... such eloquently cruel paradoxes, the torments and delights of my soul ...

Let them swallow me tonight.

Nadir

I had never seen him drunk before. I have never seen him drunk since. Erik was one of those men who can drink any amount of anything they choose, and be completely unaffected by it. But that night ... that night he must have drunk his wine cellar dry, and God knows how much else on the side ... 

I don't even want to begin to imagine what must have happened to get him into this state ... somehow I had a feeling that it wasn't just the desertion of Mlle. Daaé ...

He staggered into the house, his beautiful velvet cloak swirling around him as he collapsed into an armchair.

I rose slowly and walked over to him. I felt a wave of pity sweep over me; this total abdication of dignity from a man to whom self-discipline was so important was hard to watch without emotion.

He looked up and smiled; I was relieved - if a little surprised - that he retained enough control over his faculties to recognise me.

"Erik ..."

"Nadir," he slurred. "It's my fault, Nadir ..."

His fault? What was his fault?

"I told him to take her ... if she'd only stayed here ... that damned boy ... do you hear me, Nadir? It's my fault. My fault ..."

Christine. The omnipotent She. I should have guessed. 

"He hit her ... God damn it, Nadir, she won't accept my help, what can I do ..."

His speech was slurred and the disjointed way he was linking sentences made his words increasingly hard to follow, but the basic gist was obvious. 

By this stage, I was feeling seriously uncomfortable. I knew Erik would have hated me seeing him like this, and God knows he had enough private humiliations to deal with without my adding to them.

"Come on, Erik. You're drunk," I told him, offering him my arm to help him rise.

He brushed it away impatiently, ignoring my words.

"I love her, Nadir ..."

"I know," I said sadly.

It was now quite obvious that I was going to get nowhere while he was so blindly drunk ... I wondered briefly whether it might be wiser simply to leave him alone to let him sleep it off, and quickly banished the thought ... I had a seriously uneasy feeling that he might do something very stupid if left alone, and should he choose to venture out again he would be in no position to defend himself against the inevitable attacks.

I sat down wearily, resigned to spending another uncomfortable night on his sofa.

He slumped back in the chair, his shoulders shaking slightly as his grief poured out in a manner I was quite sure it never would have done had he been sober.

He told me details of his past such as he had never done before that night. Erik has always loathed pity, in any shape and form ... and yet pity was the only response open to me from the shock of the tales he told me. Unbelievable tales of bigotry and cruelty ... small wonder he always treated my attempts, however incongruous, to delve even a little into the murky depths of his past with dangerous hostility which I had always been uncomfortably aware could boil into violence should I push just that little bit too far.

And yet ... at the end, he seemed calmer ... his anger amazingly diminished, and replaced once more by the instinctive survival need he had always displayed, even in the most tense of moments. I like to think that perhaps it helped him to swallow a little of his long held-in resentment and bitterness, that perhaps just knowing that someone was there ... someone who cared ...

Perhaps I flatter myself. But an inherent peace came over him such as I had not seen in him since before Mlle. Daaé appeared on the scene ... perhaps the long span of months since her first departure was beginning to cauterize the wound, to dim the pain a little.

By the time he fell asleep in the chair, when I looked upon him sleeping more deeply than he had for a long time, I knew that although the inherent, unexpressed grief would never leave him, I felt sure that all he needed was time, and Mlle. Daaé would be little more than a distant memory.

I should have known him well enough by then ...


	3. Chasing Moonbeams

Disclaimer; Christine, Erik and Raoul all belong to Gaston Leroux. The story from which I'm carrying on and Nadir belong to Susan Kay. There's also a slight plagiarism from Gone with the Wind late in the chapter. (Ten points to anyone who recognises it!)

A/N - This chapter takes place several months after the previous one. There's not much to say about the time in between - Erik's still at home with Ayesha, with Nadir still keeping a pretty close watch on him ... he's trying to keep away from Christine and the Chagny family altogether, and thus far he's succeeded ... doesn't stop him thinking about her though ...

Christine and Raoul ... well, all's quiet on the home front so far as the gossips of Paris are aware - the perfect example of happy little newlyweds. Philippe cut Raoul off, so the money's come to a bit of an abrupt halt (this is just my take, but I reckon Raoul was _so_ lying when he told Erik he had money enough should he be cut out of the estate!!!)

Anyway, all's been quiet for a month or two ... about time something disturbed the quiet of gay Paris, don't you agree ...?

Erik

I cannot say what it was that drew me to the Chagny house that night; call it instinct, intuition or simply a premonition, the sense of foreboding it inspired was strong enough to make me break my last remaining vow. I had sworn to myself that I would not resort to spying on her; I had - almost - accepted I would never see her again.

But that night ... what can I say of the sense of impending disaster? I prowled the Opera for hours, fighting with myself, driven almost to distraction by the ominous cloud I could not shake off, and in the end, I gave in and made my silent, inauspicious way to the Chagny mansion. _Just for a moment!_ I told myself firmly. _Just to check everything's all right ... I'll go, and I'll see her, and I'll know she's all right. And then I'm coming straight back!_

But moments stretch into hours; hidden in the shadows of the enormous, towering oaks which guarded the sides of their house, I watched the silhouetted servants going silently about their business through the lighted windows.

By midnight, I had almost given up. I allowed myself one last, tortured look at the house where she would spend the rest of her days, and turned away. I knew, in that last moment, that I had severed my last links with humanity. I would never set foot above the surface of the ground again.

And how little do we learn?

I have believed, throughout the majority of my sorry life, that whenever I let loose with a truly unforgivably iniquitous blasphemy, or whenever I make a solemn resolve for the good of humanity, God decides to liven up his days and teach me a lesson by playing a little game of cat and mouse down on earth. With myself as the mouse.

Only seconds after I had turned away from that God-forsaken house, the quiet of the sedately expensive street was shattered by the high-pitched cry of a woman in pain, slightly muffled by the thick walls of the majestic house.

I whirled around instinctively and retraced my steps, crossing the street in less than a second and taking up my place outside the house again, the fear coursing through me. Had he hit her again? If he had ...

I shook off the lust to kill which was currently storming through me with some willpower and forced myself to concentrate on the ridiculously elaborate front door. In moments, it opened and a slight figure came stumbling out, looking behind her shoulder as she ran down the steps, not concentrating on where her feet fell in her desperate efforts to put distance between herself and the house. The inevitable outcome; she missed her footing and slipped, falling the few steps to the pavement and landing hard on her side. I heard the muffled cry of pain, followed by her hissing through her teeth a word I hadn't been aware she knew. In different circumstances, I might have laughed. But this final fall seemed to have taken the fight out of her; she made no effort to rise, but remained crumpled on the cobbles, her shoulders shaking as she wept.

Without thinking, I stepped out into the street and moved the few feet which separated us. She was so absorbed in her own grief that she didn't even notice my approach; hardly surprising when you consider that I have moved like a cat for fifty odd years, and the habits of a lifetime are hard to break.

I knelt down beside her and gently touched her on the shoulder.

"Christine."

She sat up instantly, her hands rising automatically as if in defence. I burned with anger; that damned boy had now inspired the fear of human contact into her?

She recognised me in a heartbeat and went completely limp. With a sob of relief, she fell forward into my arms, still near hysteria, but with a noticeable decrease in tension as the moments wore on. 

I looked around the street, clamping down firmly on my wildly fluctuating emotions. Everything looked quiet, but my inherent mistrust of the human race has obliterated my belief in miracles and I certainly didn't want the boy coming out to find his wife in this state.

She had crumpled onto the dirty ground, her hair and the hood of her cloak covering her face completely. For some reason, this rang an alarm bell in my head; leaning forward, I pulled the cloak away from her face, hearing my own sharp intake of breath as if from a distance. The right side of her face was one long, ugly green and brown bruise, her upper lip split and her eye blackened. For a moment, all I registered was the sudden sound of her weeping and an abrupt chill filling the air. Then I felt the rage flooding through me, the sluicegates of madness rising with increasing rapidity ... the black mists of my own insane passion were swiftly engulfing me and the urge to kill became almost unbearable. I was suddenly aware of my fingers twisting in the thick material of her cloak and in that one blinding moment of lucidity the madness receded to be replaced by a surge of remorse and intense grief.

I replaced the cloak gently on her heaving shoulders, noting how the expensive material of her dress had been ripped away from her thin shoulder blades, leaving a long tear down the sleeve, revealing more asymmetrical patterns of rage on her delicate skin. I swallowed the insanity which threatened to claim me again and forced myself to think in a calm and rational manner.

The only possible solution was to take her back to the Opera, where I could, hopefully, begin to regain her trust and mend whatever her damned vicomte had broken.

I looked down at her; she was no longer crying, and now lay perfectly still in my arms like a flawless porcelain doll, the tears still glistening on her cheeks. Her hair had fallen forward, hiding her face, but she made no attempt to brush the long dark waves out of her eyes. She seemed completely drained, and I sensed that all she wanted was, yet again, an Angel to come and take the hardships and problems of the world out of her hands and release her from her burdens.

I had been her Angel before. So it seemed, was I fated to be again.

She made no movement to stop me as I lifted her carefully into my arms and stood up, careful to make no sudden moves that might inspire the old fear into her. She was lighter than I remembered; she'd lost weight, and her figure, always slim, was now almost skeletal. Light as she was, I knew it would be impossible to carry her all the way across Paris to the Opera, and so, disregarding my instinctive mistrust of men, I signalled for one of the many cabs which roams Paris at night.

The cab halted outside the Opera, and I poured a handful of coins into the driver's palm without counting them; his sharp intake of breath told me I had overpaid him really quite dramatically. Somehow that didn't matter tonight ...

I took Christine's arm and helped her down the steps, her every movement jerky and stilted. She looked up at the building and smiled slightly, and, without waiting to be told, she moved almost automatically towards the Rue Scribe door, radiating an air of coming home which suddenly made me want to cry.

For the first few days, she was almost comatose, wavering dangerously close to catatonia. From what I could establish from her physical condition, he had done no lasting damage, and the physical pain she was in was not sufficient to account for the unspoken grief which tore her soul apart. My only guess as to why this had affected her so badly, apart from the obvious, was that the child she had always nurtured deep within her soul had suddenly been forced into the real world, and by a man she had trusted - a man she had loved.

It took little more than a month of round the clock - predominantly unnecessary - care before the physical evidence of her ordeal left her, and she was as beautiful as ever, but the deep mental anguish he had left embedded deep inside her soul took longer to dislodge.

She never told me exactly what had gone on behind the ornate front door of their home, but the little involuntary reflexes she unwittingly made every day told me more than she ever could have.

The way she would flinch at the most innocuous things; if I raised a hand to light a candle, her hands went automatically to her head in a futile, subconscious effort at defence. The way she jumped like a startled fawn every time the doorbell rang, or Ayesha made a sudden movement across the floor ... they told me more than I could ever have wanted to know.

Yet again, I was forced into the role of the father ... comforting her, calming her after yet another of the nightmares which shattered her sleep night after night, and essentially protecting her from the evils the real world presented to her. 

Always the father ... the angel ... the total dependence which rendered the dream impossible. I tried to give her space ... I never pressed her for her company, however strongly I desired it ... and yet she always seemed wary in my presence, tiptoeing around me as though she were unsure of her place in my house. She should have known she was as welcome as ever ...

She retained her composure for almost all the time she was with me; an impartial observer would have said she was quite at ease, relaxed, and friendly. But to me, she was like a clockwork doll wound up too tightly; her laugh brittle and sounding apt to break, her normally sweet, genuine smile too wide, her efforts to please anxious rather than easy. This was what I found the hardest to bear; after all we had been through and shared together, she still was too ill at ease around me to allow me even a step through the wall she had built up around herself?

We never spoke about the future. I didn't know what she wanted - to stay with me in relative safety? Perhaps to return to the Opera and continue the career she had put on hold for so long? Or ... perhaps to return to the boy.

Like many people who value control above all else, bad news has always been infinitely preferable to me when held up against _not knowing _... I was well aware of the implications of our situation - a married woman living, without the knowledge or consent of her husband or friends, with a man who was no relative, by blood or marriage, in absolute seclusion. Highly improper, to say the least. I cared little about etiquette, and still less about what the gossips of Paris would say, but Christine would. 

I kept meaning to ask her exactly what she intended to do. How many times did I lean forward in my chair to begin the conversation which could have changed the course of both our lives, only to find that I lacked the courage and inner will to do it? I have never before seen myself as a coward, but those days revealed sides to my character I had not known I possessed ... had not wanted to know I possessed.

I had known I was not above using trickery and deceit to entice her. I had known I would do anything to keep her here, safe, with me ... but I had never known that the cowardice I have always felt below me and viewed with scorn in others was present in me too.

I didn't ask her ... and for one very simple reason. I didn't want to hear her answer.

Eventually, the question became too pressing to ignore further. I needed to know her answer, and I would have asked her ... but for a completely unplanned and unexpected event which unwittingly gave me all the answer I needed.

T.B.C. ...

A/N - OK, now, just before you review (hint hint!) this is an appeal to find the author and title of this really wonderful poem I found stored on my computer the other day. I can't find it under the POTO section. Or under Musicals/Plays or Fanfiction Poetry. But I really really would like to know who wrote it and what it's called. 

This is a draft of the poem - apologies if that's infringing any copyright laws but I really want to find it again!

Close your eyes...look away...

You don't want to hear what I have to say...

Cover your ears, close your heart...

I've always loved you, right from the start.

How do I let go of something that won't let go of me?

How can I release you when you'll never leave me be?

Your every movement haunts my soul, your eyes burn into mine, 

And I love you even more though we are running out of time...

A love that lasts forever isn't strong enough for this...

But if you knew, oh, you'd have never left me with that kiss...

Right, now that I'm done with the appeals :) feel free to review ...


	4. Reaching for the Moon

Reaching for the Moon

A/N - Sorry, bit more of Christine this chapter, before we get onto exactly why Erik never asked about the future ... so you'll all have to live in suspense until then :p.

Big thanks and cyber hugs to everyone who reviewed the last chapter :) and especially to Avelera and T'Res who've reviewed every chapter so far! I love you all!

Rilar Cray - Erik's health. Yes, I know he wasn't all too well at the end of Susan Kay's version, and it will come back into this in a chapter or two, but - using my prerogative of artistic licence! - he's not all that ill anymore ... still pretty bad but as long as he takes care of himself he'll be OK. Cop out? Probably, but have you ever tried to write a story where your lead character is dying?!

__

"What a surprise ...

Who could forsee? 

I'd come to feel about you

What you felt about me ...

Why only now when I see that you're drifting?

What a surprise ...

What a cliche ..."

Send in the Clowns, A Little Night Music

Christine

I truly believed Raoul the first time he swore he would never lay a finger on me again. I thought it had been a slip on his part - after all, we all have temper tantrums occasionally, and who was I to complain if he, like Erik, occasionally found the need to express anger physically? And it was hard for him; after his brother had cut him out of the family estate - a catastrophe for which his marriage to me was completely responsible - we had been forced to cut back on our expenditure, which meant the servants had to go, and we had to watch what we spent our money on. This wasn't hard for me - I've never had very much money to call my own - but for Raoul it was a real shock to the system. He started drinking more heavily than I would have liked, but I tried to be understanding and give him a little leeway - God knows I didn't want to be one of those nagging wives who reduce their husbands to little more than servants themselves! But then his anger grew more explosive, and his outbursts of temper grew more frequent. Every time he exploded at me, he would sober up very quickly and beg for my forgiveness, which I invariably gave him. I loved him, and I truly believed he loved me. Perhaps he once did ... but by the time we had lived together even two months, I knew that love was well and truly gone.

I seem to possess an uncanny knack of both implanting and destroying love with equal unconscious ease in any man I come into contact with!

It didn't take a week before I realised, once and for all, that Erik no longer cared for me. He was as courteous as ever, and his manners and treatment of me were beyond reproach. But there was a certain cautious reserve behind the automatic civility which told me quite plainly how carefully he watched himself in my presence. Such wary attention to detail, to ensure he stepped no further than his own strict social etiquette demanded ... 

The irony which most struck me was the way that the first time I had stayed in his house, he had, on occasion, allowed himself to touch me, however slight the gesture might be. The gentle guiding of my inept fingers to the correct keys on his piano ... the chance meeting of our flesh as we exchanged music or crockery ... and then, on the last night - the night I left - I had kissed him ... But now, even after all we had shared, he had withdrawn into himself, and never allowed our flesh to meet once in all the time I spent with him if he could avoid it.

Ironic ... almost from the very beginning of discovering his true identity, I had regarded Erik's devotion as an obstacle, another little problem to be overcome ... once it was gone, it was almost like I was missing something very dear to me. I told myself not to be so stupid ... while I'd been the centre of his world, I had feared it ... feared what I knew must culminate into a final, violent explosion of black passion and hatred, but now ... it was a case of the grass is always greener, and I hated myself for it. It was hardly as if I were in love with him ...

The nightmares began about a week after I re-entered the house on the lake. They were always the same, but, insanely, I could never remember what they were about. All I remembered was fog, mist, blind panic and the knowledge that somewhere out there in the mist and the darkness, someone was waiting for me.

"Christine. Christine!"

I awoke with a start, my heart thumping painfully and my breathing coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Shh ... it's all right."

I looked wildly around, and my eyes fastened on the figure at the side of my bed. For one insane moment, I'd thought it was Raoul - now that lucidity was slowly flooding back into me, I realised it was in fact Erik who had woken me and who now bent over me, the eyes behind the expressionless white mask concerned.

I suddenly realised my fingers were twined in his, that I was clinging to him like a demented child as tears streamed down my face and I tried to regain a little control.

"You had a nightmare," he said gently, answering the question I hadn't asked.

I nodded helplessly, willing myself to calm down a little. Oddly enough, the fear seemed a little diminished by Erik's mere presence; when I'd had nightmares as a child, my father had always managed to make the demons of my imagination disappear, and now Erik was having the same effect. Against my will, I found myself remembering the day I left, when he had insisted on giving me away ... Did he really consider himself a substitute father to me now?

Realising that my fingers were still fastened onto his with a death grip, I hastily withdrew my hand and looked away from him, a hot flush of embarrassment flooding through me as I realised the implications of the situation.

Erik was wearing a long, loose silk robe I had never seen before; as I let go of his hand, he took a step back and turned away to light a candle on the dresser.

I fumbled for my handkerchief, cursing myself silently as I remembered dropping it in the bathroom that evening ... _why is it so hard to keep a handkerchief around my person for more than about five minutes?!_

He turned slowly back to me, the eyes behind the mask unreadable.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

I tried to nod and smile, aware of quite how pitifully I was failing.

He nodded slightly and took a step towards the door.

"Would you like something to help you sleep?"

I summoned my voice and said weakly, "Yes, please," fully aware of how stupid I sounded and hating myself for my lack of originality.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, then disappeared back into the living room. I tucked my legs up close to me and wrapped my arms around them, shivering slightly as the fear, for a moment diminished by Erik's presence, returned with a vengeance, making me go cold again.

I buried my head in my knees and closed my eyes.  
There was a slight tap at the door as Erik re-entered, carrying a small glass of cloudy water.

"Here," he said gently, handing it to me. "Drink it."

I obeyed without question, tilting the glass to my lips and watching him over the rim. He was looking at me, and yet ... such an utter lack of emotion as I had ever seen in him, studied indifference ...  
He waited until I had finished every drop, then smiled slightly and retrieved the glass from my still trembling fingers and rising slowly.

"Sleep well," he murmured, his voice gentle and his eyes unreadable.

He turned to go, and a fresh wave of fear gripped me.

"Erik!"

He was back at my side in an instant, his eyes concerned, his fingers constricting automatically around mine as I clutched at his hand with a strength born of fear that he should leave me alone in the dark.

"Don't go!"

He withdrew slightly, suddenly looking doubtful. The moment of indecision lasted only a moment before he stepped closer and set the candle down on the dresser. 

"It's all right," he said gently. "I'm here."

I nodded, the fear somewhat diminished by the knowledge that he wouldn't leave me. Not tonight, anyway. But what about tomorrow, when the nightmare returned, as I knew it would ...?

The warm softness of the narcotic he had given me began to steal in, but still the disquiet remained, the shadow lurking in the back of my mind, dispelled only by daylight ...

Through the warm mists which were slowly falling over my eyes, I felt the comforting pressure of Erik's fingers over mine as I drifted off into a drugged sleep the nightmares could not penetrate.

He stayed with me, all that night. And every night after ... he can't have had more than an hour's sleep a night for over a month ... until the nightmares faded and security set in again.

What more could you ask for from a substitute father?

So why do I feel so empty without his love behind me?

  
A/N - Sorry, v.v. short chapter this time ... hardly worth posting really :s but I wanted to get a little more of Christine's p.o.v. across to make her behaviour in the next chapter plausible :) 

Please review *smile* you guys keep me going in the real world!  



	5. Searching for the Light

A/N - Here it is - the chapter I've been looking forward to writing ever since I started writing this fic! ... all Raoul-haters will love this chapter! *tee hee*

T'Res - Hmm, hadn't really thought of it ... *hides face in contrition* I'll bring her into it a little later, promise! Still a bit of a short chapter :s sorry ...

__

"He doesn't want your mind, the fool, and I don't want your body. I don't grudge him that ... but I do grudge him your mind and your heart ..."

Rhett Butler, _Gone with the Wind_

Erik

It was a crisp, coolly refreshing winter morning. Not that she would have known - she had steadfastly refused to set foot out of doors since her return, the sole reminder of the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her damned vicomte, the shadow of fear which stalked her silently at the memory of the outside world ...

Be that as it may, it was my favourite type of day ... the sort of day which could tempt me out of my sanctuary. Having completed the little business I had to deal with in Paris, I made my way home, savouring the tangible pleasure that is our capital city in twilight in winter.

I entered the house, and made my way to the drawing room in search of Christine. I found her sitting in the armchair, reading a book with a slight frown of concentration partially obscured by her hair falling forward over her face.

I smiled slightly. The book she was reading was _Madame Bovary_, and far above her intellectual abilities. Intelligent as she undoubtedly was, she had always preferred cheap romantic trash novels to anything with a little substance and a plot deeper than a dinner plate. The irony of that particular choice was not lost upon me, although it would probably have passed her by while making her selection.

She looked up and smiled as she saw me, an even, genuine smile which warmed me from the inside.

"Where were you?" she asked. "When I woke up you'd gone."

"Paris," I replied. "A little business to attend to."

She nodded, apparently satisfied with my excuse for my absence.

I gestured at the book she had dropped on the glass table. "_Madame Bovary_?" I asked.

She laughed, ducking her head in a charming display of feigned embarrassment.

"I can't get into it," she confessed. 

"That doesn't surprise me, my dear," I said. "It's hardly your normal reading matter, is it?"

She shook her head. "I wanted to try something new. Something a little different ... perhaps where there isn't always a happy ending and ..." her voice trailed off and her eyes fell away from mine.

__

There's our difference, my dear ... I seek the happy ending life has denied me in literature. Perhaps when you have had it all, you tire of perfection more easily ...

"Go and change for dinner, my dear," I told her, "and I'll see if I can find you something a little more suitable. A Bronté, perhaps ..."

She smiled and rose obediently, leaving the room with a subtle fragrance of lilies and the general peace she always brought with her mere presence. I walked over to her chair, still bearing the faint imprint of her body, and ran my fingers lightly over the cushions, tracing the contours of her slight frame.

__

I love her ...

No. That's not what she needs from me ... not what she wants. 

I bit my lip until the blood flowed, relishing the pain it brought. How can it be that that sort of pain is so easy to bear ...?

I turned away from the chair with an effort, and began searching along the bookshelves for something a little more suitable for her with which to occupy her mind.

I was brought back to the present with the jarring loudness of the electric bell which I knew from some long-buried instinct wasn't Nadir ...

I moved with the silence of a lifetime's practice back into the front room. When I saw who it was who had dared to approach this Minotaur's labyrinth of mine, my heart stopped and then jumped with a painful extra two beats.

Raoul.

Despite myself, I was shocked at the change in him. The last time I had seen him, he had been undeniably attractive and well-built, the memory of which had tormented me mercilessly.

Now his face was fleshy, his muscle predominantly wasted through lack of exercise, and his entire form distinctly thickened, with a puffiness around the eyes which I fear could only be attributed to excessive alcohol consumption.

No, the man who stood defiantly on my expensive carpet made a shockingly raw contrast to the perfect Adonis of only a year ago who had charmed Paris and swept Christine off her feet without even trying.

Reassuring to know I'm not the only one Christine has the ability to destroy utterly ...

Not that she was the same girl ... the shy dancer who had defied the odds and won the heart of Paris with the inherent sparkle anyone could unearth in her, if they were only prepared to look for it was long gone ... 

Paris had lost interest in its newest star months ago - would that it were so easy for me.

"Where is my wife, Monsieur?" he demanded with barely restrained civility.

I felt the anger rise in me, but forced myself to remain calm ... if I lost my temper now we would all be swallowed by the insanity which was rising slowly in me ...

"Your wife?" I repeated coldly.

"I know she is here," he said, matching my tone. "Where else would she have gone?"

"She has other friends," I said icily. 

"Other lovers?"

The pure cruelty of this icy bombshell knocked the wind out of me, and had Christine not walked in at this point, I dare not think what carnage might have ensued.

We both turned to face her, his expression changing quickly to a smile, appearing not to notice the way her face drained rapidly of colour and the instinctive step towards me, clasping her book to her chest.

The Vicomte took a step towards her, his arms outstretched.

"Christine ... my darling ..."

She went a little whiter, and backed away from him, moving closer to me in an instinctive flight or fight reaction I dared not read too much into.

I stepped in between them, feeling rather than seeing her fear.

"While you remain on my ground, you will not touch her," I warned him. _For my sake as much as hers..._

He looked appraisingly at me for a moment, judging whether or not he dared disobey the experienced killer who stood before him.

Something of the hardness in my eyes warned him that I had not scrupled to make an attempt on his life once before, and my morals had not altered.

He turned his attention to Christine once more, taking on a cajoling tone.

"Christine ... darling ..."

She shook her head wildly, backing off again.

"I believe Mlle. Daaé does not wish to speak with you," I said levelly, facing him head on and obliging him to meet my eyes.

"Mme. de Chagny!" the boy snapped. "She is my wife, and I would thank you to remember that!"

I looked back at Christine, trying to disguise exactly how acutely that last shot had hit home.

The boy appeared to lose his temper at my silence; he reached out, and would have grabbed her wrist had I not swiftly inserted myself between them again with a warning glare at him.

"Come, Christine!" he ordered in a manner which suddenly put me in mind of the way he would address his servants. "We'll have no more of this nonsense. You're my wife, and you will come home with me right this instant!"

She shook her head, her eyes large with fear.

"I believe you have her reply," I said coldly. "Now, if you would care to remove yourself from my house ..."

"Of course she refuses!" the boy exploded, a little of his former energy showing through the deteriorated exterior. "She's terrified of you!"

I went cold. The desire to obliterate the boy from the landscape was now overwhelming, and yet ... and yet, what if he was right? If she truly was afraid of me? Even now?

I turned to her, suddenly feeling very tired.

"It would appear we have come full circle, my dear," I said wearily. "You have nothing to fear from either of us ... however, it seems there is a decision you must make. You may remain here, as you are very welcome to do, or you may return above the ground with ..." I swallowed and forced myself to continue, "with your husband."

She looked blankly up at me.

"Do you understand me, my dear?" I asked, very gently.

She nodded dully. 

__

Your choice, my dear ... your Apollo ... or your Orestes?

(A/N - Orestes was an eternally damned Greek "hero" who was pursued by the Furies for all those who haven't been blessed (cursed?) with a classical education!)

Christine

I looked from one to the other, both looking at me - Raoul looking irritatingly confident with his hand outstretched to me, Erik gazing helplessly at me with an expression in his eyes I can only describe as despair ...

It occurred to me that it might hurt him more now than ever before should I leave to go with my rightful husband - if he truly considered me the daughter Fate had denied him, it would be a doubly cruel betrayal ... to lose me first as a lover, and then to be denied the child he deserved so utterly.

I looked at Raoul, and went cold with fear once more. I had loved him, and perhaps a part of me still did, but the scars were embedded too deeply in my soul to be washed away with a few pretty words, and I could never see him in the same way again ... that part of my life was over for good.

I moved closer to Erik and took his hand, for support as much as anything else, feeling him stiffen slightly in surprise as I did so, then close his fingers around my own with the same gentle comforting pressure he had displayed when he soothed me from the demons of my imagination.

Raoul took a step towards me, his expression one of anguished disbelief. 

"Christine!" he said with dismay. "You can't mean ... you can't stay here! Think of what people will say!"

My fear melted into anger such as I had not known since the day he had tried to prevent me from bringing a wedding invitation to Erik ... my God, so long ago!

"That's just it, isn't it!" Emboldened by the encouraging touch of Erik's long fingers on mine, I continued, losing my temper as I went on and the anger rose in me.

"Always what people will say, what people will do ... always your _bloody_ reputation!"

I felt, rather than saw, Erik raise his eyebrows in surprised amusement. Raoul looked thunderstruck; he had never heard a lady swear before, and I'd certainly never exploded at him like that until today.

He took a step towards me, thinking better of it and retreating as Erik cast a threatening glance at him, turning away to look around the room.

"You truly want this?" he asked incredulously, contempt evident in his voice as he surveyed the semi-dark space. "You want _that_?" gesturing towards Erik's mask. 

I felt Erik stiffen, and pressed his hand gently, warning him to let it go._ It doesn't matter anymore ..._

Raoul threw up his hands in disgust.

"Have it!" he said viciously. "See if I give a damn. You ... you're welcome to her, _Monsieur_," he spat, with one last contemptuous glance at Erik.

He stormed out, banging the door behind him.

Erik and I stood in silence for a long moment, before the weight of his gaze compelled me to look up at him and meet his eyes. Slowly, he lifted a hand and traced the line of my hair. I caught his hand and held it to my cheek for a moment, before he hesitantly reached out and took me into his arms.

He held me for a long time, cautiously at first, then closer as the moments wore on. I laid my head against his chest, savouring the warm comfort of his embrace, and surprised at how easy it was.

It came to me like a shower of raindrops slowly condensing, like quicksilver darting around my brain before gradually coming to rest and bringing me to tears as I realised the cruel truth.

I loved him. 

I loved him ... and he no longer loved me.


	6. Fighting the Spectre

A/N - Poor Erik ... as if he didn't have enough to deal with at the moment ... :(

I know this has been a long time in coming, and it's still pretty short, and I'm sorry *mutters about Maths coursework and evil teachers* but I'm a little lost now, and I'm not quite sure where this story's going. All suggestions welcome! 

Big hugs and lots of love to everyone who's reviewed :)

Christine

I heard a crash from Erik's room, sounding as if Ayesha had knocked something off a shelf (an event which was becoming ever more frequent as evidence of her displeasure at my presence).

Unsure whether or not Erik was actually at home, I hesitated outside his door for a moment, then tapped lightly at the door and pushed it open.

The first thing I saw was his mother's oil lamp, lying smashed on the floor. Oh, Ayesha ...

A harsh choking sound drew my attention to the coffin. I looked up, and my heart stopped.

Erik was on his knees before the coffin, the mask off, and his face white with pain. His breath was coming in shallow harsh gasps, one hand clutching at his chest, and I had a sudden flashback of the first attack he had ever had ... how could I have forgotten?

"Oh, my God!"

Shaking off my initial paralysis and shock, I ran to him and fell on my knees beside him. He shook his head violently, forcing one long, elegant hand up to cover his face, his breathing becoming ever more ragged.

I bit down hard on my fear. _You've seen his face before!_ I told myself wildly. _Don't panic now ... later, but not now!_ I shook my head hard, trying to clear my mind of the mad tangle of thoughts which were whirling round my head with dizzying, eddying speed. I forced myself to think clearly, silently cursing myself for not asking after his health before ... I should have known._ I should have known!_

I looked wildly around the room, and my eyes fixed on a small cut crystal glass on his mahogany table, half-filled with water and remembered that Father had always kept a glass of water by his bedside in case one of his "turns" came on during the night. With a speed born of desperation, I jumped up and held the glass to his lips, encouraging him to drink a little. My heart was still thumping painfully, and my head was beginning to spin.

He coughed violently, pushing the glass away and trying to keep his face covered in the same movement. I felt a sudden surge of intense remorse and handed him the mask in silence, fastening the straps gently around his head.

I sat there for over an hour, holding his hand and murmuring soothing nonsense as one might to a child, until the pain seemed to diminish a little and he regained enough control to stagger to a chair.

It was disturbing to see him so utterly helpless; throughout every crisis of my career, and almost every aspect of my life since our very first meeting, he had always been there, an angel in every respect except the most literal, shouldering the burdens of my world and caring for me as had the father he had replaced.

That afternoon was one of the most terrifying I have ever lived through, as I saw my world view shatter - again. I've always known he's not infallible ... he has always needed me desperately, even now ... but however fragile his mental state and emotions might be, his health has always been untouchable. I had seen him ill before, but even the first attack he ever had was nowhere near as serious as this. The realisation that his death was a very real possibility terrified me more than anything I could imagine ...

I sat up with him all night, until sleep came through the haze of pain and loosened his grip on my fingers. I looked down at him, and gently brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, running my hand lightly over his forehead and feeling the fever in him with a terrible cold fear.

Feeling suddenly very weak, I sat down on his bed and cried.

Erik

I can't believe it ... for months I prayed for another attack, for the final spasm of blinding pain fading into everlasting brilliance which would herald my exit from this world, and yet even this mercy was denied me. And now ... now that she needs me more than ever before, God sees fit to punish me and remind me of my place by dropping this on us.

When I awoke, she was lying with her head on the side of the coffin, her face white and pinched, her cheeks still glistening with tears, her eyes closed in an exhausted sleep.

I tried to stand, but the pain shot me again, forcing me back into the chair with an involuntary gasp of agony.

She jerked awake, instantly rising and moving over to me. She took my hand and passed her hand lightly over my forehead, brushing my hair back with gentle fingers. Apparently satisfied, she knelt down at my side and looked up at me.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly.

I almost laughed. _Never better, my dear ..._

"Christine ..." My God, such an effort to form the words ...

I gestured feebly at the glass of water she had set down on the side. I had an uncomfortable memory of pushing her away and knocking the glass over ... _damn, I can't remember ..._

It was the frustration which affected me the most; the pain was nothing and I did not fear death, but the frustration ... the _humiliation_ ...

She held the glass to my lips, and I took a sip, swallowing the shame of needing her help in such a basic matter, and trying desperately to remember exactly what I had done last night.

__

I remember standing up ... taking off the mask to wash ... picking up the oil lamp to take it back out to Christine's room ... catching sight of my reflection in the polished brass of the frame ... a white-hot flash of pain, blinding in its intensity ... reaching towards the coffin for the mask ...

Oblivion.

The pain exploded down my chest again, whitening the world to an agony beyond expression, the light fading into darkness and I felt myself clutching helplessly at her as I fell, into a merciful black void where the pain receded into unconsciousness as a black velvet curtain fell, obliterating all conscious knowledge and shutting out the world.

Nadir

I entered the house on the lake cautiously; Erik normally came to meet me when I rang the doorbell. I had an uneasy feeling about the house today, it was too quiet. Normally there would be some sound; Christine humming to herself, Erik playing almost absent-mindedly on either the organ or his violin, or at least a slight hissing from the cat to register her irritation that I had returned. I had never recovered an affection for cats since my experiences with the _Glory of the Empire_, (A/N - the favoured cat of the shah, see Susan Kay's Phantom) and I sometimes wonder who that damned cat of Erik's hated more, myself or Mlle. Daaé!

The front rooms were deserted, and with an ever-increasing sense of forboding, I proceeded cautiously to Erik's chamber, hoping against hope that they had simply gone out ... that he hadn't done anything stupid ...

I opened the door slowly and peered in, stopping short at the sight that met my eyes. Christine was on her knees on the floor, tears streaming down her face, frantically patting Erik's hair in a feeble attempt to wake him, and I remembered with a terrible fear his grimly flippant remarks about his health ..._why hadn't I listened?!_

Recovering from my original paralysis, I moved over to Christine and shook her with as much gentleness as I could muster through the terrible, increasing fear.

She looked up at me and gave a sob of relief.

"Thank God!"

"You may tell me what happened later," I said grimly. "It is his heart?" _God, I hate this bloody language ..._

She nodded.

"Right. Help me ... where is there a proper bed?"

She glanced fearfully over at the coffin for a moment, then shook herself and rose, pointing out of the room and into a space I couldn't quite see.

"In my room ... shall we take him there?"

Somehow, we managed to get him from his chamber into hers, and settled him as comfortably as we could into her impressive, old-fashioned bed.

Christine, recovering from her hysteria now that there was once more someone to tell her what to do, fetched blankets and chairs for us to sit on while we waited. She sat with him all night, holding gently onto his hand and smoothing his hair back from his face.

I remember thinking, just before I dozed off, that they made a sweet couple ...

By morning, he was delirious.

I awoke in the chair to see Christine, her face white and pinched, squeezing water from a cloth over his unmasked forehead and stroking his hair almost distractedly. He was tossing and fighting against the restraining blanket, becoming more and more agitated as he sank deeper into the mists of his nightmarish past.

I stood up, every muscle in my body screaming in protest from the uncomfortable night in the hard-backed kitchen chair, and walked over to her. She did not look up, but when I laid my hand gently on her shoulder, she covered it with her own in a gesture of solidarity, stunning me with the realisation that I no longer hated this girl; joined too inextricably by this extraordinary man who now lay feverishly tossing on her bed before us, any ill-feeling between us was now quite impossible.

She passed her hand over his forehead, and I felt her whole body fall in rhythm with her anguished sigh.

"He's still so hot," she murmured. "I thought the fever might have broken ..."

I sighed slightly, remembering with a startlingly intense feeling of what the French call _deja vu,_ the only time I had ever seen him like this before ...

Unbidden, my mind flew back to another time, another place, the hot, sultry courts of Persia where every friend is an enemy waiting for the slightest chink in your defences, and when a man's life is priced at the cost of a goblet of poison ... 

__

The masked figure tossing feverishly on the bed, staring with eyes full of anguish at something only he could see ...

I was brought back to France by the sound of his voice. Anguished and desperate, yet retaining the inhuman beauty which set it apart from all others, he was calling with frenetic hopelessness for her ...

"Christine ... _Christine ..._"

She sat up straighter and took hold of his hand. 

"I'm here, Erik," she whispered. "It's all right, I'm here ..."

He gripped her arms with the painful intensity I remembered all too well from Persia, staring unseeing up at her, and falling back with a soft moan of distress as his mind withdrew ever further from the physical world.

__

"Christine ..."

"Erik ... Erik!" I heard her voice rise with panic as he went still and I stepped forward with a sharp motion, betraying my nerves. I lifted his wrist and checked his pulse, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as I found it ... faint, and irregular, but there ...

She looked up at me, her face streaked with tears. She looked like a very frightened little girl whose world had been turned upside down in one night and had just about reached the limit of her endurance, and suddenly I felt an almost overwhelming surge of pity for her.

What would happen to her, if Erik didn't wake up?

A/N - So, what do you all think should happen next? I can't promise to use all the ideas, but my Muse has gone into major hibernation at the moment and isn't coming out, so I need all the inspiration I can get! :)


	7. Countering Fate

A/N - OK, firstly thanks to everyone who threw in ideas for this chapter :) much appreciated - I haven't taken them all, but I think the majority of you will be OK with what I've done ...

Just to clear up one little point; I have been told that the plot's contrived and that there's no way Christine would believe that Erik wasn't in love with her anymore. No, she's not blind and no, she's not faking it. She just has absolute zero self-esteem (after what she's been through, who's surprised?) which doesn't help as Erik's isn't exactly on top form either. Just the way I see it :)

Disclaimer; There are some references to libretto from two operas later in the chapter; the one from Aida belongs to Verdi and the one from Faust ... well, I'm not sure who wrote Faust but take my word that it's not mine!

__

"No pain could be deeper,

No life could be cheaper,

No point anymore,

If I can't love her ..."

If I can't love her, _Beauty and the Beast_

Nadir

She looked so peaceful. Asleep at last, the long days and nights of unceasing vigilance finally having taken their toll, she looked like a porcelain doll, and suddenly I could very well understand how Erik had come to love her so.

Glancing up and around the room, my eyes fell on that damned cat of Erik's. Crouched on a shelf, malevolence shimmering over her like smoke, she was staring at Christine with a sullen resentment.

__

Good to know she hates at least one person more than me ...

I sighed. Even relaxed in sleep, Christine looked tired and drawn; she was neglecting her own health in her stubborn refusal to leave Erik. I had come to respect her more and more during the last few days - tense and strained, it had hardly been an ideal setting for a new friendship to form, but her unswerving devotion had won her my grudging approval, and more than once, I found myself thinking with regret of what could have been ... if he were less aloof, and less afraid of exposing the old scar tissue to any further pain, and if she were less of a child ... more able to recognise her own feelings before it was too late ...

Yes, I was sure that Christine Daaé had come to love Erik with the same kind of unselfish intensity with which he loved her ... and against all my instincts, I found myself praying that she would find the courage to admit it to herself, and to him ... before it was finally too late.

Christine

I woke with a start, and looked around with a sudden panic before I realised where I was. I glanced down at Erik and tucked the blanket a little more securely around him where it had come adrift. He was finally sleeping peacefully, the fevered dementia of only a few hours ago at last receded into calm. Thank God ...

The door opened, and Nadir entered, carrying a tray. He smiled as he saw me and placed the tray lightly on a table.

"You're awake," he said. He gestured to the tray and indicated that I should sit down at the table. 

"I thought you might like some breakfast."

I shook my head automatically. "Oh, no, thank you ... I couldn't."

He was silent for a moment, and I was afraid I might have offended him, but as I looked up and into his eyes, I was caught off guard by the intense compassion and sympathy I found there.

"You'll be no good to him if you waste away through lack of food," he said kindly, and despite the gentle humour in his voice, there was something there which made me realise the truth of his statement, effectively silencing my automatic protests.

Nadir turned away and walked over to Erik, passing a hand over his forehead to check his temperature.

"He looks a little better," he remarked.

I raised my eyebrows._ Better ...?_ I lowered my eyes to my breakfast and took a sip of orange juice, wincing at the sharp flavour. I had become accustomed to Erik's unusual tea; Russian with lemon, and really quite drinkable ... provided it was he who made it and not me!

I toyed with a fork, contemplating how best to refuse the food without insulting Nadir; it was sweet of him to make it, and I truly did appreciate the gesture, but ...

My musings were cut short by the sound of Erik's voice, raised once again in anguished plea.

"Christine ..."

I rose hurriedly and almost ran to the bed. I knelt down at the side, and took one of his long, skeletal hands in mine.

"Erik," I murmured. "Can you hear me?"

He stirred slightly, and I turned to Nadir, suddenly desperate for the guidance of someone older and stronger.

"Keep talking," he said, never taking his eyes off Erik as he moved quickly to his side and lifted one thin wrist to take his pulse. Anticipating my protest, he shook his head. "Say anything, it doesn't matter, just ... don't stop talking."

"Erik ... I don't know if you can hear me ... oh, God, Erik, please wake up, we need you ... Ayesha needs you, and ..."

The ache in my throat became unbearable and impossible to speak past. Ashamed of my weakness, I forced back the tears and looked away, unable to bear the weight of Nadir's glance.

Suddenly I felt his hands on my shoulders as he pulled me to my feet and compelled me to look him in the eye. He began to speak, the words low and urgent and, despite the heavy accent which came from his unfamiliarity with my language, strangely reminiscent of Erik's.

"Will you sing for him?"

For a moment, I stared at him in stunned silence, convinced that he had gone quite mad. _Would I sing ...?_

"If you can't talk to him ..." he took a deep breath and seemed to finally disregard the boundaries of self-restraint which had bound him thus far into our acquaintance, and continued, "if you won't tell him how you feel, will you sing for him?"

Another moment of heavy, airless silence before I broke the spell and shook my head. It was impossible, I couldn't do it, I _wouldn't_ do it, hadn't I already done enough ... 

The refusal formed, hesitated, broke apart on my lips, as a sudden memory slashed through my mind.

__

I wonder if you know what happiness your voice has given me these past six months, what pride I take in your remarkable achievement ...

Happiness ... such an alien concept to him ...

No question of choice.

(A/N - Yes, I know she couldn't sing a piece like this without warming up first - it's artistic licence!)

Nadir

I have heard Christine Daaé sing many times before. Each time, she has given me the impression of an outstanding if somewhat uninspiring singer. This time, however ... every ounce of soul the girl possessed was flung, heart and soul, into her voice, and the result was as heartwrenching as any Erik had ever produced.

"Oh, how strange! 

Like a spell does the evening bind me!

And a deep languid charm

I feel without alarm

With its melody enwind me

And all my heart subdue ..."

The sudden silence was deafening. I stared at her, incredulous, for a moment, before a movement under my fingers returned my attentions to Erik. He moved slightly, his face creasing and a soft murmur escaping his lips.

"Christine ..."

I heard her take a sharp breath in as she knelt by the side of the bed and took hold of his hand again. I felt her take a deep, shuddering breath, before ...

__

"My heart forseeing your condemnation into this tomb,

I made my way here by stealth

And here, far from every human gaze

In your arms I wished to die ...

See? The angel of death,

With shining wings, comes near, 

To bear us to eternal joys

Upon his golden wings ..."

Her voice broke and she let her hair fall forward, a thick dark cloud hiding her tears. I looked away uncomfortably and caught my breath as my eyes settled on Erik's form once again. He had become increasingly agitated during her heartbreaking performance, tears forming in the mismatched eyes and slipping unheeded down his sunken cheeks at her abrupt termination to the song.

"Christine ..." I said, a little more sharply than I had intended.

She looked up, her face pale and streaked with tears. I gestured wordlessly towards Erik, racking my brains frantically for something we could do; I was no physician and Christine's nursing skills were hopelessly inadequate, but I could just imagine Erik's reaction should we betray his trust and reveal his refuge to a doctor ... I knew unquestioningly that he would sooner die than have his sanctuary made public. 

She touched her fingers to his cheek in a heart-wrenching display of silent, measureless affection, her tears mingling with his. Slowly, with infinite gentleness, she leant forward and laid her lips against his scarred temple.

A fleeting moment of infinity ...

She gave a dry sob and buried her head in her arms, her shoulders rising and falling in harmony with the intense private grief which excluded all but herself and the extraordinary man before her. 

His hand stirred ... slowly, painfully, his eyes opened and one emaciated hand rose to stroke her hair. She looked up slowly, as if hardly daring to shatter the illusion ... their eyes met, his curiously at peace, hers large and still tear-filled ...a moment of intense silent communication, until with a sob of relief, she fell into the arms he opened for her.


	8. Conflict of Interest

A/N - Thanks firstly to Lisa, for telling me who wrote Faust - apparently it's Gounod (I'm ashamed to admit I've never heard of him) and to l'ange de la nuit who tells me that the FANTASTIC poem I put out an appeal to find the author of earlier in the story is hers!!! Truly truly brilliant poem :) everyone should read it. 

I also should say thank you to Jedi Skysong, one of the many people who threw in ideas for how this should turn out; she said something very interesting, that Christine could become Erik's strength just as he was hers ... well, I got to thinking about that, and the first scene of this chapter is kind of all about that. :)

T'Res - I know! I know, and I am sorry, I wish I had time to write more frequently as well, but with all the coursework I've got on at the moment, and mocks in three weeks ... hell, I should be doing nothing but schoolwork! So I'm sorry, but it's not going to change :s.

This chapter is set quite a while after the last one; Erik has all but recovered, but he's still got to take pretty good care of himself, Christine's been mother-henning him to death (OK, bad metaphor!!) but they're still tiptoeing around the subject of their feelings for each other.

What else ... Erik makes some revelations, Christine ventures outside for the first time, and Nadir decides he's sick of all these misunderstandings and resolves to do something about this entire stupid situation.

Erik 

I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her scurry about checking temperatures, adding ingredients, and generally looking like the perfect little woman in the kitchen with pleasure. In the heat of the kitchen, her face was flushed and her hair was in complete disarray, held back with one solitary clip and falling backwards over her shoulders in a dark mass of wavy curls.

She was so incredibly beautiful ...

As if in slow motion, I saw her move forward to take a pan off the hob, saw her touch her finger accidentally to the side of the pan, drop it, and heard her hiss out a word I hadn't even been aware she knew from between clenched teeth.

I raised my eyebrows in not altogether displeased amusement.

She whirled around, going scarlet as she caught sight of me. I fought the impulse to laugh, and moved towards her in order to take a look at her finger.

She made an embarrassed little dismissive gesture, confirming my original thought that she hadn't really burned herself at all, just been caught off balance by the unexpected heat.

She glanced helplessly around the disordered kitchen, colouring as my eyes took in the dirty pans heaped on every available worksurface, a bowl with some sort of mixture in it balanced precariously on top of a pile of unwashed crockery.

"I ..." she began, her cheeks flushing red as she sought frantically for something to say to ease her embarrassment.

I smiled slightly, fighting the impulse to cheer. This was the first real sign that she had given of feeling even slightly at home ... and I think destroying my kitchen can fairly be translated to an increased ease around my house.

"What are you trying to do, my dear?" I asked finally, releasing her from the agony of embarrassment allied to demolishing her host's kitchen.

She shrugged helplessly, still staring at the floor and looking as though she wished it would open and swallow her whole.

"Christine?"

"I ... I wanted to make something nice for dinner," she said softly, not meeting my eyes. "You don't eat enough ..."

Casting her eyes around the muddle she had made, she suddenly looked ready to cry.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'll clean everything up ..."

I groaned silently to myself. Whatever progress she had made was rapidly being swallowed by a belief that I really gave a damn about my kitchen.

"Don't be silly, my dear," I said gently. "If I help you clear it up, we can make something at least partially edible from whatever's left over from this assault on our food supplies. Will that be all right?"

She nodded wordlessly, swallowing hard.

"And after all," I said lightly, "anything that's left over we can give to Ayesha and pretend it's caviar!"

She looked hesitantly up at me, then the corners of her mouth curved and she started to laugh. Really, she never ceased to amaze me ... she seemed to have grown up so much since my last attack! She had become an unlikely pillar of strength and the neurotic fears of a child which she had harboured for so long seemed to finally have been vanquished.

I was prouder of her than I can say ...

Christine

I took a deep breath and tapped lightly on Erik's door, pushing it open before he had a chance to reply. I'd made my decision but I had to do it now before I lost my courage ...

He looked up, startled, from his desk, where I could see yet another pile of precariously-balanced music scores. He rose automatically and gestured towards an armchair.

"My dear ..."

I nodded my thanks and sat down, perching on the edge of the seat and twisting my fingers in the folds of my skirt, tapping my feet on the floor.

He smiled slightly. "What's wrong, my dear?"

I looked up at him, shaking my head. "Nothing ... I've just been thinking a lot lately, about this whole situation, and ..."

A sheaf of music slid to the floor in a graceful white shower as his hands clenched involuntarily on the desk for support.

"And, my dear?" The words were carefully chosen and seemingly indifferent, but the tremor of his hands belied the calmness of his tone. I cursed myself silently as I realised that he had misinterpreted me; _did he think I was going to leave? Where did he think I'd go?!_

I took a deep breath and screwed up my courage.

"And ... I think I'd like to go to Mass today."

He turned towards me, the surprise in his face evident even behind the mask. I knew he didn't approve of religion, but I'd missed the weekly ritual, and I believed that God would have wanted me to continue with my life ...

"Well, my dear ... you are most certainly welcome to do so if you would like to ..." He laughed slightly. "I'm afraid you've caught me off balance, I wasn't expecting this ... but if you feel you'd like to, I will of course support that."

He paused for a moment, then continued with the air of one choosing his words with more than a little care now.

"Who will you be going with ... Mlle. Giry, perhaps ...?"

I shook my head. "No, I'd like to go alone ... I don't know that I want to see Meg again quite yet."

He nodded. "Quite understandable."

There was silence for a moment, then he glanced at a clock and raised his eyebrows slightly. 

"What time will you need to leave, my dear?"

I looked at the clock.

"Oh, God! I should go ... are you sure you'll be all right here? Nadir said he'd come by later, so if anything's wrong ..."

He gave me an ironically patient half-smile. 

"Child ..." _Child!_

"I will be perfectly all right. You really must stop this worrying ..." his voice trailed off, then he gestured towards the clock. "And you would be wise to hurry." 

Erik

After she had gone, I moved restlessly around the house, trying to find something to occupy my mind and stop myself going quite insane. _She'll be fine,_ I told myself. _It's hardly as though she's never been out before, she's not a child ... she'll be perfectly all right._

I almost laughed at the absurdity of the last futile attempt to allay my fears. Not a child? If she were halfway as strong as the average child, she would be in no need of my protection and would have left long ago ... if indeed she had ever returned.

At length, I resolved to try and create at least something good out of this damnable mess; heading for the music room, I made to drown my fears in music as I had done so many times before. I sat down at the organ and looked around for the sonata I had planned out yesterday. I clicked my tongue in irritation; however well her motives were, I would never get used to Christine's attempts to civilise me by tidying this most precious of rooms. Frowning, I began to move sheaves of thick creamy writing paper over which were scrawled my rough drafts ... a slight noise from outside the door distracted me, and a pile of music fell unheeded to the floor.

With several quick steps, I moved to the door and flung it open, half expecting to see Christine returned, ignoring the logical part of my mind which told me she would be at least an hour, and probably more.

A slight noise came from the floor, and I looked down to see Ayesha, plainly seeking attention and, with her head tilted slightly upwards, looking at her most angelic. I smiled in spite of myself; this manipulative little lady had not been named after _She Who Must Be Obeyed_ for no reason!

I knelt beside her and tickled the furry little cheek. "Come, my darling ..." I murmured. "I have work to do ..."

The expression on her face made me want to laugh; every muscle in her small, perfectly formed body screamed _So what!_ as loudly as was humanly possible. 

Offended, she turned and stalked away. I sighed; Ayesha was a tiny angel to me, and not for a moment have I ever regretted taking her in, but she truly was the most wilfully manipulative creature I had ever encountered!

I closed the door and retreated back inside my sanctuary, sighing as I saw the state of the music which had scattered lazily over the floor like a quietly disruptive paper snowfall. I knelt and began to gather the papers together, reflecting ironically that even if they had remained on top of the piano, their carefully organised arrangement would most likely not have survived Christine's war upon the imaginary dustmites she seemed to fear inhabited all the rooms in my house.

My fingers touched something hard and rectangular, and from underneath a sheet of truly abysmally depressing work slid a small, dark blue book.

I picked it up and turned it over in my hands, curious as to what it might be and whom it might belong to.

The second question was answered easily enough; I recognised Christine's beautiful copperplate handwriting across the front of the book without taking in what was written there. I opened the cover and riffled through the pages, almost tearing the pages in my insane curiosity to know what the book was, and exactly why she would have left it here.

The first thing I noticed were the two names repeated on virtually every page; mine and her vicomte's. My confusion deepened as I flicked through the pages, faintly scented with lavender and covered with even, sloping script.

Suddenly, a phrase leapt off the page and hung in my brain for a moment without registering. Then it fell with blinding speed, landing on my solar plexus and whiplashing the wind out of me with ruthless efficiency.

__

"I'm quite sure Erik isn't in love with me anymore ..."

I must have sat there for over an hour, staring dully at the madness set out so neatly in rounded copperplate. Slowly I began to return to my senses, and as I flicked through the pages, my incredulity grew. 

__

How could she believe that?

Christine

I entered the house, happy and uplifted by the comforting familiarity of the Mass service, and pushed back the hood of my cloak, fluffing my hair. 

I began to make my way to Erik's room, but stopped short at the sound of raised voices from there within. I backed into the shadows and listened, a sudden forboding sense of nervousness settling over me.

I could hear Nadir's voice, raised, almost angry ...

"Are you _completely_ blind, Erik, or is it just a little show put on for my benefit?"

I held my breath, waiting with a kind of terror for the violent explosion of Erik's anger which I was sure would follow. But it didn't ... his reply, when it came, was taut with self-control with just a tremor of emotion beneath a finely-veneered indifference.

"I would appreciate it if you would not meddle in matters which do not concern you," he said icily. "I think perhaps you should leave now and return me to my privacy."

There was silence for a moment, and then Nadir's voice came again, flat and wearied with a kind of resignation.

"You're a fool, Erik."

No reply. Nadir came out of the room slowly, pulling on a pair of thick gloves. I flattened myself against the wall, backing into the shadows even further, praying that he wouldn't see me._ Just what had they been arguing about?_

Hesitantly, I made my way to Erik's room and tentatively pushed the door open with no little nervousness.

Erik was standing with his back to me, his hands clenched on the edge of the mantelpiece. As I watched without comprehension, he drew a long, shuddering breath and passed a hand across the mask with a kind of tightly-restrained sorrow I had never seen in him before.

He stood very still, his hands spread over the mantelpiece, for a long time, barely seeming to breathe. Suddenly, with a lightning-fast flare of anger which gave me a shock, he hurled a small cut-glass vase into the cold dark fireplace where it shattered into a thousand crystalline shards reflecting the darkness.

This futile display of frustration seemed to drain him; with a stiffness quite alien to his normal catlike grace, he sat down heavily in one of the black armchairs, his back ramrod stiff as he stared bleakly into the empty fireplace.

Unable to watch more, I turned and stumbled back to my room, my heart pounding and my head whirling.

What was wrong with Erik? And why hadn't he told me about it?


	9. Misreading Signals

A/N - Big huge major thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I've had my first two mocks in the last two days (English ironically enough :) ) and it's been hell because my teachers seem to have made it their mission to make our workload shoot right off the humanly possible. Anyway. Enough of my ramblings, what I'm trying to say is that it's only you lot and your nice comments that keep me sane :)

I fear that I've been a little too nice to Erik in the last few chapters (hey, I've only had him nearly die!) and so here is some *serious* cruelty to Erik ... sorry ...

__

"New ... and a bit alarming

Who'd have ever thought that this could be?

True, that he's no Prince Charming ...

But there's something in him that I simply didn't see ..."

Something There, Beauty and the Beast

Erik

I should have known by the expression on her face when she entered, apprehension mixed with a determination I had been noticing more and more often in her lately, that I didn't want to hear what she was about to say; but no, like a fool I ignored my instincts - how many times have I done that in the last few months?!

"Erik ..." she said hesitantly, the apprehension for a moment overtaking the determination, she seemed to falter and stop, losing her nerve.

"Yes, my dear?" I prompted gently, fighting the impulse to laugh. She really was so endearing when she lost her confidence, charmingly innocent ...

"I've been thinking," she said. I raised my eyebrows as a signal for her to continue. I wasn't going to prompt her through the whole conversation!

She looked at the floor for a moment, then burst out in a sudden rush of recklessness, "And I think I'd like you to come to mass with me, oh Erik truly, it wouldn't be that hard, and I think it might be good for you, and ..." She trailed off at my expression. Making a massive attempt to conceal my shock at her bizarre request, I forced a slight laugh and shook my head.

"No, my dear, I don't think so ... religion and I don't get on, as a general rule."

I saw her take in a sharp breath at my blasphemy, and seeming to take strength in her argument from her God, she drew a deep breath and plunged back in, seemingly unaware of the deep water she was sinking even further into.

"How can you say that? You haven't been for so long, you can't possibly know ... don't you want to make your peace with God?"

I laughed ironically. "You could say that God and I made our peace many years ago ..." Aware that she was beginning to look ever more horrified at my flippancy, I tried to smooth the waters a little; "And besides, my dear ..." I paused, trying to think of a more delicate way to say it; "the likes of myself are hardly welcome in church ... among respectable society."

Now she was losing her temper. "Everyone is welcome in church! _Everyone!_"

I raised a hand with a gesture of frustration, pulling it backwards through my hair. She shied away instinctively, her hands rising to her head in an automatic defensive gesture.

"Don't!"

Her voice came out shrill with terror, her eyes wider with fear than I had seen for a long time ... and suddenly I realised ... 

Flashbacks. She really thought that I would hit her? I'd never so much as touched her without express consent, and now she thought ...

I took a trembling step back, trying desperately and unsuccessfully to regain my composure without frightening her further ... but it was too late. With a final frightened glance, she turned and fled, the inherent flight or fight instinct bred into all of us, but especially prominent in her case, taking complete control and driving her with a force beyond my comprehension.

Had I been thinking, had my mind been less occupied and distracted, I would have been after her in an instant, I would have stopped her ... but instead I stood still like an imbecile, rooted to the spot by the speed of it all. 

It had all happened so quickly ... a deep-buried part of me wept for the loss of her trust, that the fear that I had complacently thought was gone was just as present as ever, if a little subdued ...

But a larger part of me, quite possibly to avoid the deeper question, fixated on a more practical problem; _where had she gone?_

Nadir

He was sitting on his black throne when I entered; he didn't look up and didn't register my presence, even when the cat hissed at me.

My eye was caught by the light glinting off a gold chain he was restlessly winding round his fingers and studying with a blank despair which seemed quite beyond redemption.

"What's wrong?" I asked cautiously.

He looked up at me, his eyes hollow pits of despair. "She's gone," he said dully. "It's over."

I sat down suddenly, finding my legs unable to support me any longer. He looked back down at the necklace and twined the thin gold chain round his fingers.

"_Why?_" I breathed in horror.

His voice still flat and devoid of all emotion, he replied almost mechanically.

"We had an argument ... I frightened her, she thought I was going to hit her ..."

There was a heavy silence for a long time while I struggled to digest this crashing new revelation. I looked over at Erik; he looked completely shattered, his world once more blown to pieces before his eyes.

"Right," I said grimly, gathering my composure again, "we have to find her."

He looked up sharply. "No."

I stared at him with utter disbelief. "_What?_"

"She has the right to choose where she will go, and what she will do with her life. It is not your place, or mine, to interfere."

I bit back the automatic retort that he had interfered fairly consistently in her life for the past year, why change the habits of so long? And with that final act of self-restraint, my self-control blew and blazing hot anger at Erik's misplaced chivalry replaced my instinctive pity for this misaligned couple.

"Are you mad?" I shouted. "A single woman, sleeping on the streets of Paris with no money and no knowledge of the real world? If she's not dead by tomorrow, she'll have become a whore within the week!"

He rose instantly, his usual feline grace somehow even more pronounced and suddenly terrifying in his anger.

"Get out of my house," he said, very softly, every word tight with barely leashed fury and forced self-control stretched to breaking point. "If you were anyone else, I would have broken your neck for that. Get out now, and, Nadir ... stay away. Stay away from Christine Daaé, or you will have deep cause to regret it."

I left without a word, closing the door silently behind me.

As I stepped out into the cold grey Parisian street, I reflected ironically on his last sentence ... did he really believe that I didn't curse the day Christine had walked into his life enough already?

Christine

"What's wrong, _cherie_?"

I jumped and looked up, relaxing slightly as I saw the person who had addressed me was a woman; dressed in the tawdry extravagance of a prostitute, and heavily painted, but her eyes were kind and her voice gentle, if her accent was a little common.

"You're new to this, I guess," she said kindly. "And you're missing someone ... a husband, a lover? Come, _cherie_, tell me about it ..."

I looked away, shaking my head slightly in dismissal. I didn't yet know if I could handle talking about Erik, or last night's horrible horrible argument ... 

The woman regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, then; "Come," she said gently, indicating a backstreet where I could see the flickering light of a small fire dancing patterns off the grimy walls of the alley. I followed her, suddenly feeling very tired and welcoming any small kindnesses, even from a person such as this.

She offered me a coarse blanket to sit on, which I accepted gratefully, warming my hands over the fire and breathing in the warm smell of something cooking, half-choking on the acrid smell of smoke. The woman offered me a mug of warm liquid, turning away to poke the flames.

"They call me Adele," she said without looking back at me. "And you, _cherie?_ What's your name?"

A slight pause, then...

"Madeleine," I said firmly, cursing myself silently as I did so for an appalling choice of name, all things considered ...

Adele regarded me seriously for a moment, then a hint of a smile crept into her eyes.

"I think you're going to do just fine out here, _cherie_," she said, and turned away to stir something cooking over the fire.

"So you see," I finished, clinging to my mug of almost undrinkable stewed tea for support as I bit back the tears, "I don't know what to do ... I know now that I overreacted, it wasn't his fault, but ..." 

The fire had grown low and Adele's face was predominantly in shadow, but her expression was kind and understanding in the flickering patterns as the firelight danced over her features. I knew somehow that telling her my story didn't matter ... she would understand. 

"He will come for you, _cherie,_" she said gently.

"That's the trouble," I whispered, bending my head as the tears began to fall. "What if he doesn't?"

"Oh, _cherie,_" she murmured, slipping her arms around me and pulling me close. And although the puritan in me recoiled at the smell of her cheap perfume and the coarse feel of her dress, her embrace was warm and almost motherly ... surprisingly so.

"It will be all right," she promised, cradling me like an infant. "Shh ..."

I cried until I could cry no more, and then finally, soothed by her warm presence and drained both physically and emotionally by the long day, I slept.

In the cold. In the rain. On the street.

When I finally awoke, cold and stiff and feeling vaguely damp and dirty all over, I was aware of the rough blanket which Adele had evidently wrapped around me before ... leaving. She was gone.

I raised one hand to brush a lock of tangled hair out of my eyes, and suddenly became aware of a cord knotted carefully around my wrist. I started with shock as I traced the cord to under the blanket and withdrew, my disbelief growing by the minute, a leather sac tied at the neck. Dazed, barely believing, I untied the strings and then fell back against the cold wall of the alleyway, unable to take in what I saw.

Coins. Heaped gold coins of large denominations, reflecting the dingy grime of the streets off shiny polished surfaces.

A piece of paper, dislodged by my fingers, slipped from the bag and floated to the dirty floor of the street. I snatched it up, and my heart stopped.

On the sheet of paper, as close as one could get to divinity without leaving this earth, was the intricate ink line drawing of an angel.


	10. Correcting Faults

A/N - OK, people, it seems I have an apology to make. I ended the last chapter with a gift to Christine, with a sheet of paper inside with an angel drawn on it. I assumed that you'd all realise that I meant her own personal angel, Erik. But apparently some people got confused, and I'm sorry :s. Come on, you didn't think Erik would leave her out there all on her own did you?! So just to get the record straight; the money was from Erik, and he's still watching her, keeping an eye on her just to check she's OK, which - thanks to Adele - she is.

Hope you all had a good Christmas ... guess what my best present was! Tickets to see Phantom! : D

Happy New Year to everyone and cross your fingers for me and my stupid mocks!

Erik

I was hurrying through the turbulent market day crowd, returning to the Opera to check on Ayesha, when I caught sight of Nadir seated at one of the wrought-iron tables outside a gay little café with a red-and-white striped awning over the shop doorway. He was leaning over the table, talking earnestly; altering my position, I was able to see his companion.

A moment passed in a startled bolt of recognition; it was the red-haired woman who had taken Christine under her wing the previous day. Suddenly I remembered, a long time ago, a conversation with Nadir about his new-found acquaintances in Paris, and a lady of dubious reputation ... this must be her.

I stepped into the shadows and began to listen to their conversation. I could hear Nadir's voice, low and earnest, explaining ...

"It's not that I don't trust him to do the right thing, and if I'm honest I don't think he'll leave her out here alone for long, but ..." He reached across the table and brushed the woman's hand, a lightly affectionate gesture. "Well, I'd feel better knowing that someone was taking care of her. Just for the present. She's hardly streetwise ..."

The woman smiled slightly. "I can tell," she said coolly.

Nadir's smile was little more than perfunctory.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked suddenly, changing the mood.

She laughed, a harsh sound with just a trace of bitterness.

"How much do you owe me for trailing a naive little puppy around the streets of Paris? Nothing, Nadir ... take it on me."

He looked deep into her eyes for a moment.

"Are you sure?" he asked, very gently.

"I've not sunk quite so far that I have to start charging friends for favours," she said sharply. "Keep your money, Nadir ... it won't do me any good."

He nodded and brushed her cheek with his hand.

"Take care, Della ..." he said.

She laughed, very softly, and turned her face away.

"As ever ..."

He turned as if to leave, and then ...

"Are you in love with her?" she demanded suddenly. 

Nadir turned back to her, his face suddenly sombre.

"You're a little too clever for your own good, Adele," he said quietly.

There was a silence for a moment, then he moved a little closer towards the woman.

"Thank you, Della," he said gently. "You know this means a lot to me." He reached out and brushed her cheek with his hand.

"No problem, Nadir," she said quietly. "Any time ..."

He gave her one last fleeting smile, then turned and walked quickly away, leaving Adele standing by the table, looking suddenly very vulnerable and very alone. She cast one final, faintly sad look after him.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly, then, regaining her composure, turned and disappeared into the seething crowd.

I entered the house, ignoring Ayesha's mewl of welcome, and sat down mechanically in the black chair, staring unseeing at the wall. I had intended to return to the streets as soon as possible - even with Adele's dubious protection, I still felt uneasy about leaving Christine alone out there, but temporarily - and for the first time in many months - all thoughts of Christine were displaced, my mind working feverishly to make sense of what I had just overheard.

__

Eavesdroppers never hear any good about themselves ...

I wasn't sure who had told me that, but it had never seemed more appropriate than now ... _Nadir and Christine?_ Impossible! And yet ...

I struck my fist against the table with frustration, dislodging a sheaf of papers, which fell in a slow, gracefully insolent shower, sliding to rest on the carpet in an elaborate jigsaw of notes and scales.

My hand touched the leather cover of a book; glancing up to see what it was, I smiled wryly as I recognised the dark blue of Christine's diary ... yet another problem to be addressed at some point ...

I picked up the book and flicked through the pages again, reflecting drily that, had she continued to write in it, it might have yielded further clues as to her internal worries. As it was, she had ceased to write just over a month ago, the last entry being the day before her vicomte had returned, with no explanation, no hint that she was through with it; one day there was an entry, and the next there wasn't. _Typical female perversity ..._

I stood up abruptly, slamming the book closed and dropping it back onto the table.

I'd had enough. Christine didn't believe I cared? I would make her believe.

Christine

I plucked absently at a rip in my dress, my eyes searching the street for any sign of Adele. I didn't need her anymore; I didn't need anyone! But she had been kind to me, and I felt inexplicably bound to her; to say thank you, and goodbye ... it was predominantly her words that had finally made up my mind to return to the Opera. Her voice still rang in my head, slightly bitter, strangely sad ...

"Don't let your pride stand in the way,_ cherie_ ... if you don't go back now, if you don't tell him you love him, you'll regret it for the rest of your life ..."

Suddenly I stood up, tired of waiting; I would find Adele later. For now, the only important thing in my mind was to get home ... 

I didn't allow myself to consider the possibility of what I would do if he truly didn't want me any more.

It was about ten minutes later that I realised I was lost. The alleys all looked the same, I must have turned up the wrong one ... I turned around, a faint chill of panic clutching at my insides. Catching sight of a party of men out on the main street, I ran forwards and caught hold of one's sleeve.

"Excuse me ..." I begged, trying unsuccessfully to calm my breathing. "But could you please tell me how to get to the Opera ..." I stopped short as he turned around and the whisky fumes from his breath hit me. I glanced wildly at his companions and realised that they were all in much the same condition; quite inebriated, and probably unaware of their actions.

The man began to laugh, the sound drunken and increasing my anxiety.

"Sure ..." he slurred, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me close, his beard scratchy against my cheek. "Come with us ... we'll find it ..."

I backed off, my mind searching with a sudden intense desperation mingled with terror for any means of exit. Not for the first time I cursed myself for not taking proper care; would I ever get used to living without the protection of a man?

The firelight glinted off the eyes of one of the men as he approached, a leer pasted on his face, smelling strongly of cheap beer. My stomach lurched and I made a desperate lunge to my left in a vain bid for escape, my dress catching and tearing on a nail protruding from the wall. I stumbled, letting out my breath in a sharp gasp of pain as my ankle gave way beneath me. I threw out my hands to catch myself as I fell, grazing the palms and only managing to twist my ankle even further underneath me.

As if from a distance, I could hear drunken laughter and jeering; I could feel a man's hot breath on my face; the smell of cheap beer as he pressed his lips against mine, the sour taste of alcohol and sweat. I struggled frantically, twisting my head away and clawing blindly at his face with my nails, raking his skin, but he was too strong ... I could feel the weight of his body descend onto me, his hands pinning mine to the ground, fleshy, sweaty, his face red and drunken above mine ... 

And suddenly he was gone, the air cool and clean against my face, my arms ... I struggled backwards, pressing myself against the reassuring coldness of the alley wall for support as my eyes focused on the impossible tableau unfolding before me.

Tall, dark, imposing, and radiating a cold threatening menace mingled with an overpowering fury quite divesting him of all self-control; even before he turned and the light illuminated the unforgiving white mask, I knew beyond all doubt that the figure silhouetted in the dancing flames, his eyes burning with a fury even I had never seen in him before, could be none other ...

With the agility of a wild cat, he whirled as one careless, overly bold youth made to fling himself on him from behind, dispatching him with a blow which sent him crashing into the wall, the sickening thud as his head connected with the brickwork, the trickle of blood down his temple as he slid down the wall and came to rest on the ground, his body limp, his face white.

I closed my eyes against the picture, the blood, the fire casting threatening shadows on the alley wall and illuminating the fight, the overwhelming odds against Erik, and yet, and yet ...

It felt like hours I was huddled up against the cold grimy brick of the wall with my arms wrapped around my head before the drunken shouts receded and a heavy silence descended, leaving me too afraid to open my eyes ... afraid of what I might see.

Finally I looked up to see Erik standing above me, his breathing coming slightly faster than normal and his eyes still blazing, but he was alone and had no obvious wounds. 

I let out my breath in a half-sob of relief. I opened my mouth to speak; and to this day I don't know what I would have said; what can you say after somebody saves your life when you have treated them so badly? But he shook his head, raising one finger lightly to his lips to stop me.

"Shh," he murmured. He bent to pick up my cloak, which I had unconsciously let fall, draping it gently around my shoulders and smoothing it over my dress.

I was aware of the pressure of tears building behind my eyes at his odd, faintly sad gentleness, and after everything I had done to him ...

"You'll catch your death of cold out here," he said quietly, his eyes unreadable. "You should go inside." 

I looked up at him, nonplussed. _Inside where?!_

He read my mind, as he had done so often before. "There are many options open to you. You have money, you may go to a reputable hotel or perhaps leave Paris altogether; you have friends you could stay with ..." He hesitated slightly, then continued, "of course, you are more than welcome to return to the Opera ... for as long as you so desire."

I nodded slowly, the warmth of relief almost shutting out the cold of the street. I tried to speak, to assent, but all I could manage was a shaky, "Please ..."

But he understood. He had always understood.

Gesturing towards the street, he moved behind me to guide me home, every so often his hand a light pressure on my back directing me through the tortuous maze of back alleys and passages that I had failed to master.

We reached the Opera in a little under ten minutes under cover of darkness and entered by the Rue Scribe door.

The cat hissed as I entered, prowling over to Erik and shooting me a look of contempt mixed with loathing which screamed "What is _she_ doing back here?"

Normally Erik would laugh, stroke the cat and dismiss her hatred for me. 

"She's jealous," he had told me once. _She_ was jealous?!

But today ... today he ignored her completely, sitting down heavily in his black chair and closing his eyes. A chill of fear passed through me; if it was his heart again ...

"Erik," I murmured, making my way over to him, ignoring the spitting cat. "What's wrong?"

He rose slowly, his every movement stilted and forced in a manner quite alien to his usual feline grace, turning away from me and beginning to make his way to his chamber.

"Erik!"

Half-turning, his eyes seeking out mine with a kind of desperation, he fell, his cloak spreading like the wings of a bat and showing me, for the first time, the sticky red wound which was blossoming like a horrendous crimson flower over the white of his 

shirt.


	11. Further Irony

A/N - Happy New Year, everyone! 

I went to see Phantom on the fourth, and it was SO good! I cried so much though, I'd forgotten just how sad the ending was when you see it live ... *sob* Seriously though, it was AMAZING - if any of you get the chance to go see the LC, then do! John Owen Jones is unbelievable, he's absolutely heartbreaking at the end. :*(

Aaanyway, enough with my totally irrelevant rambling, on with the chapter. :)

Lisa; I know the chapters are few and far between! I'm sorry! :s But it wasn't me who brought Nadir's woman of dubious reputation in, it's a quote from SK's Phantom ... wow, for once I was sticking to the guidelines set! :)

Avelera; *shrug* Hey, why not Nadir and Christine? I'm damned if I see why Erik should be the only one to suffer!

Christine

I fell to my knees beside him, catching hold of his hand and pulling the cloak away from his body. The blood from the wound, which I could now see had been caused by a stab from a knife of some sort, was spreading with frightening speed over the pristine white of his dress shirt.

His hand closed around my wrist with a grip of intense desperation. His breathing was ragged and the burning amber of his eyes seemed to dim, but summoning the last reserves of his considerable strength, he pulled me closer to him and began to speak, his voice hoarse but intense.

"Christine, listen ..."

"Shh, I'm here ... it's all right, Nadir will be here soon and he'll know what to do ..."

He fell back with a bitter sound which could have been taken for laughter.

"Nadir. Always Nadir."

"What?" I breathed incredulously. "He's your friend!"

He closed his eyes, and his grip loosened on my wrist.

"You're so young ..." he managed. 

"Oh, shush!" I said, more sharply than I had intended. He turned his face away from me, his hand reaching automatically to his side, staining his long, skeletal fingers with blood.

"Erik ..." I said, suddenly very afraid. He remained still, his breath coming in harsh, painful gasps, his hand lying limp on the floor.

"Erik!" 

He turned his head back towards me, a slow, painful movement that made me go cold with fear.

"Listen ..." he managed, the words forced and laborious. "You must ... listen ..."

I nodded, unable to speak past the sudden unbearable ache in my throat.

"You didn't ... you didn't believe ..."

__

I didn't believe ... what?

"Shh ..." I murmured. "It's all right, I know ..." 

He shook his head. "No ...you don't ... you don't understand ... I ... I have to ..."

I shook my head gently, placing a finger on his lips to silence him. A tremor ran through his body, but he fell silent, and for a moment, the only sound was of his shallow, laborious breathing.

"Don't waste your strength," I told him with as much calm as I could muster. "You've just got to stay calm and it will all be all right."

He smiled faintly through the pain, his eyes closing as he lay back, his hand slipping out of mine.

"Erik!" I could hear my own voice rise, sharp with alarm.

With a great final effort, he opened his eyes and smiled at me, taking hold of my hand and raising it slowly to his lips before his eyes closed and his head fell backwards, his body going limp in my arms.

Nadir

I wasn't sure whether or not I should go to Erik that day ... our final parting had hardly been on friendly terms, and with Christine still having not returned, he was liable to be in an absolutely foul mood.

But in the end, I decided that his frame of mind might have altered, and he might be more willing to accept the idea that we should follow her. Even if he wasn't ... we had been friends too long to fall out over a woman.

Even if that woman was Christine ...

I rang the bell and waited patiently outside. But when the door opened with a crash, it was Christine who stood in the doorframe, her face wet with tears and her dress stained with blood.

Too shocked to react for a moment, I stood and stared at her in absolute incomprehension. A whirling mass of thoughts shot through my mind with dizzying speed, condensing into a jumble of incoherent feelings displaced with a growing feeling of apprehension and fear without name.

With an immense effort to clear my head, I pushed her as gently as I could out of the way and, catching sight of Erik fallen on the carpet, moved to his side with all speed and a stifled curse.

I was vaguely aware of her hovering behind me as I knelt on the carpet beside him. The carpet squelched beneath my feet; for a moment, too shocked to take it in, I stared at the sticky red pool forming on the dark velvet without comprehension, then I swore vehemently and with full feeling as I realised the implications of this amount of blood ... 

I touched the wound, my fear fading infinitesimally as I realised whatever had been used to stab him had missed the lung. Taking control of myself, I turned to Christine.

"All right," I said firmly. "I think it's just a flesh wound, it shouldn't have caused much of a problem except for the blood loss ... we're going to have to stop the bleeding."

She nodded. "What do you need?"

I thought for a moment. "Clean water ... towels ..." I shook my head in frustration. "There's nothing much we can do after that except sit and wait."

She disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind her and, for a few minutes, I could hear her rummaging around in drawers and the splashing of water into a bowl.

Carefully, I pulled the shirt away from Erik's body, exposing the wound and praying that he would forgive me for this new humiliation.

It may seem odd to European readers that I managed to gather myself and take control of the situation with such ease; one must remember, however, that in my home country, Persia, fights are commonplace and my knowledge of knife wounds and elementary treatment is extensive; secondary only to poison antidotes ...

She reappeared, carrying a ceramic bowl brimming with water and an armful of clean white towels. She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of Erik, causing the water in the bowl to slop over the sides, soaking through the dark velvet carpet and leaving a faintly damp mark.

Recovering herself, she steadied the bowl and came over to me, her eyes fixed on the sticky red wound and the blood surrounding it, staining the carpet and his clothes.

"He wouldn't like this," she murmured.

I took a towel and, dipping it into the water, began to clean the wound as gently as I could.

"What?" I asked.

"You and me ... seeing him like this. He'd hate it." 

I shrugged and rinsed the towel in the bowl, turning the water red.

"Yes, I daresay he would."

She knelt down beside me and brushed his hair out of his eyes, touching her fingers lightly to the unforgiving surface of the mask. I saw a tear squeeze out from behind her closed eyelids, sliding down her cheek to land on his chest.

"This is all my fault," she whispered, her voice breaking.

I folded a towel in two and laid it carefully over the wound, watching it turn red with alarming speed.

"What happened?" I asked finally, laying another towel over the previous one.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath.

"I ... I was lost, I didn't know where to go ... I asked a man, but ..." Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands, partially obscured by tangles of hair. "He tried to ... and then Erik was there ... God knows what he was doing there, I ... there was a fight ..." She fell silent, her shoulders shaking as she relived the scene inside her head.

I frowned slightly, trying to make some sense of her incoherent ramblings, and failing utterly. 

Finally she sat up, took a deep breath and pulled her hair back from her face. Suddenly almost frighteningly composed, she stood up and moved across the room to light an oil lamp on the dark wood of the table.

Without turning round, she asked, "Is there any way to move him? I don't know that he should be on the floor all night."

I considered the problem for a moment. She was of course right, if we could move him to a proper bed it would definitely increase his comfort and possibly speed the chances of recovery, but I wasn't sure whether moving him at all was a very good idea.

I could feel her eyes on me, questioning ... she had grown up a lot in the last few weeks, and her increase in composure was impressive, but she was still the little girl at heart, looking desperately for advice for someone older and - hopefully - wiser, or at least more knowledgeable.

"Right," I said, making a snap decision. "We'll chance it. Which room is yours?"

Much later, we sat in her room, lit by the flickering light of the candles, the oppressive semi-darkness and tension weighing on me like an anvil. I had assured her, time and again, that it was not a serious wound, that damage was minimal and that he was only still unconscious because of the massive blood loss he had sustained. I stifled the urge to tell her that he had had no sleep within the last few days, so it was hardly surprising that his body needed time to recuperate ... somehow I didn't think that would help matters.

She sat in silence, staring at Erik with a concentration so deep that you could almost touch it.

She traced the outline of one of the many scars lining his torso with her finger, not quite touching it, staring at it as if she couldn't believe such a thing.

"A knife?" she asked, without looking up.

I sighed. 

"A whip, I'd say."

She shuddered, her hair falling forward and concealing her face. I'd been noticing this more and more from her of late, the way she used her hair as a shield ... the protection it gave her when it covered her face, the way she would dip her head and toy nervously with a curl when she wanted to avoid having to answer a difficult question ...

There was a long silence, the she spoke again, her voice flat and expressionless, betraying just how tired she was.

"Will he be all right?"

"Undoubtedly." She didn't turn, the flat rejection of her back showing me just how little she believed my assurance. "It's only a flesh wound ... the only real problem was the blood loss and we've dealt with it." 

She finally looked round at me, her face tired and drawn in the dim lighting.

"Definitely?"

I looked at her and sighed. _There was so much of Rookheeya in her, even when she was upset and tired out of her mind ..._

"I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."

She smiled then, the lovely genuine smile which lit up her face, and for one fleeting moment, the carefree little dancer she had once been shone through the exhausted, exterior which was so much older than her years. 

She rose slowly, her face lighter and her mind evidently eased by my positive assurance.

"I need something to drink," she said, her eyes smiling in a way that reminded me so much of Reza that it made me catch my breath. "Can I get you anything?"

I shook my head and moved automatically to take her place by his side. She graced me with her smile once more and disappeared into the kitchen.

I looked down at Erik and shook my head.

__

What am I going to do? 

Christine

I made my way towards the kitchen, my heart considerable lighter. _He was going to be all right ..._

Catching sight of Ayesha perched on top of the bookshelf, I stopped to talk to her. I knew better than to reach up to try to stroke her or anything so foolhardy, but she was Erik's cat and deserved my respect ... sort of ...

"Hello, Ayesha," I said brightly, in the voice most people use to address small children.

She shot me a look of the utmost contempt, rose slowly, turned round, and sat down again with her back to me. Impudent cat! I laughed softly, imagining Erik's reaction.

Turning to enter the kitchen, my eye caught sight of a newspaper lying on Erik's desk through the open door to the study.

Despite everything, the paper sparked my interest. I had never seen Erik with a newspaper in the house; yet another example of his stifling indifference towards the human race he considered himself so loosely a part of. I picked up the paper and glanced at the page it had been folded open to ... and my heart stopped.

**__**

Vicomte dies in tragic Seine accident.

The body washed up on the banks of the Seine yesterday evening was today identified as being that of the Comte de Chagny's younger brother, Raoul. It has not been disclosed as to exactly what death was due, but a verdict of suicide is expected at tomorrow's inquest.

Raoul de Chagny was recently at the head of a scandal regarding his wife, the former opera singer Christine Daaé, who disappeared from their Place de Rouens mansion in the middle of the night with no reason left and no trace of her seen since. At the time, the Vicomte's only comment was "I don't know where she's gone, and I don't know whether she's coming back."

His elder brother, Philippe de Chagny, passed no comment on today's events; it is reported that he and Raoul had not spoken since the aforementioned marriage, upon which Philippe had cut his younger brother out of the family estate and severed all ties with him, both personally and professionally.

I let the paper fall from my hand as I collapsed into one of Erik's black armchairs, only able to see the first line reproduced in my head again and again ... my husband was dead.

He was dead ... and I had killed him.


	12. Revelations

A/N - Well, here it is! I know this chapter's been a long time in coming and I'm really sorry :s. Hopefully you'll like it :)

Now, some scary (well, for me, anyway!) news - the end is nearing for this story - yep - the next chapter will, I think, be the last. Now that's scary for me because it means I have to come up with a new story! AHHHH!!! :)

Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed - it really makes my day when I see I have a new review. :D

__

"Don't you see we've been watched over?

As we crossed the wildest seas

Even God wants us together

Can I end this journey please?"

Please, Miss Saigon

Christine

I stared ahead, a thousand images flashing before my eyes; Raoul in a box at the Opera, standing to applaud ... in a gondola at the park, his laughing face handsome in the sunlight ... him in black, stiff and nervous and yet so appealing on our wedding day ...

And I felt empty.

A heavy weight of shock hung over me, but I felt ... nothing. No pain, no remorse, no affection ...

__

No love.

Numbness.

My hand stirred over my side, unconsciously tracing the line of the scar caused by the knife with which Raoul had struck me last February, the discoloration of the flesh where he had beat an insane symphony of rage on my lower body and the bruises had been so deep, so painful, that the marks had never truly left my flesh ... the injuries I had never told Erik about and which, like any proper gentleman, he had never asked to see, but which had caused me silent agony throughout the nights for months after the bruises Raoul had left on my face faded away. Erik had never known about them ...

And suddenly, through the unwanted flashbacks of Raoul's face contorted with an inhuman fury, the little Italian maid cowering in a corner while he raged and shattered china around the kitchen, the blood spilling over my breasts and stomach when I tried to wash the wound in the privacy of my own room ... there came another picture.

A silhouette, warm and kind by the fire, reading aloud ... a soft, comforting voice in the night after one of my nightmares which I never truly managed to shift ... the music of angels and the love of a man who never expected anything in return ...

I owed Raoul nothing.

And I owed Erik everything.

I rose slowly, crumpling the paper in my hand and almost dropping it into the fire ... but at the last moment thinking better of it.

I made my way back to my room, pushing open the door and greeting Nadir's smile of welcome with a half-smile of my own.

His eyes swept me, concern evident at my rapid change from almost euphoric relief when I left the room to reflectively philosophical now I re-entered.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

I offered him the newspaper by way of reply. He took it, looking mildly confused, caught sight of the headline and let his breath out in a deep sigh.

He rose and gestured towards his chair.

"Sit down," he said quietly. "You've had a shock."

I sat down on the edge of the bed, ignoring the proffered seat.

"Did you know about this?" I asked quietly.

He sat down heavily, looking very tired. He shook his head slowly, his eyes holding a distant sadness and an expression almost of resignation.

"No ..." he said slowly. "No, I didn't know."

"But you're not surprised."

He sighed deeply, and shook his head, glancing back at the newspaper.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this." His voice was quiet, reflective. "But ... no, I'm not really surprised."

I looked up at him, and was caught off balance by the level of understanding in his eyes.

"You've been following him?"

Again he sighed.

"Not following him exactly ... following his story, if you like. Listening out for the gossip of Paris ... you don't know how lucky you are, fast talkers are so easy to come by here."

He stopped for a moment, glancing at me as if to ask whether he should go on. I nodded, and he continued.

"They say that ... he went - what is the expression? "Off the rails"? He spent money recklessly, money he didn't have to spend ... of course you know he was disinherited. He ... he became involved with some rather unsavoury characters who, so I believe, offered him a chance to clear all his debts and have some left over ... it didn't pay off, of course. But he became more and more involved. I believe a lot of it was just rich young gentlemen getting inebriated and making fools of themselves, but ..."

He sighed heavily. "I had hoped it wouldn't come to this." 

I sat perfectly still, my eyes fixed unseeing on the carpet. The numbness was like a blanket around my heart, muffling and smothering the pain I knew I should have felt. 

Understanding my silence, Nadir stood up and passed silently out of the room, leaving me alone with Erik and my thoughts.

I moved over to Erik's side and sat down almost automatically.

"So, Erik?" I murmured. "What happens now?"

He did not stir. I sighed and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, feeling the _deja vu_ strike. This situation was beginning to feel distressingly familiar ... 

I rose and began to walk around the room, feeling caged in, wishing suddenly that Erik was awake ... insensitive as it might be, he would have listened ... he would have understood.

I almost laughed at my own rationalisation.

Erik ... displaying any reaction to the death of Raoul other than that of suppressed joy?

Miracles will never cease ...

Nadir

I leaned back against the wall, my head aching and my mind spinning.

Her Vicomte dead ... she a free woman. Free to marry again ...

Unbidden, I found myself recalling the look on Erik's face after he sent her away ... the pure, undiluted anguish of a man who loved her enough to release her ... effectively signing his own death warrant. There was no life for him without her ...

The full extent of Erik's mental state in the long weeks after her departure is still almost too painful for me to remember. The unbelievable grief ... it was as if his will to live had gone the day the wedding announcement was published in the paper. He had been quite rational the evening that she left ... he seemed almost dazed, as if he were living in a dream that would shift as soon as morning broke over the dome of the Opera House and release him from the unbelievable torment to which his soul was, yet again, being subjected. 

But the next day, he didn't answer the door. The bolts were drawn and the interior was in darkness, silent darkness utterly devoid of the celestial music that could bring light to the deepest pits of hell. I had no choice but to return home, but the feeling of foreboding weighed heavily on me and, as the day wore on, I found I could no longer shake off the ominous dark cloud that seemed to draw me irresistibly back to the Opera and the fallen angel therein.

The house on the lake remained in silent darkness for a week; every day I returned to bang on the door and plead with Erik to let me in - every day my entreaties went unanswered. I almost began to wonder if it would not be better to take an instrument of destruction with me the next time, and force my way in - the unanswered premonition of dread and impending disaster was such that I finally began to believe that it would be worth it.

On the eighth day, the door stood open. This, in itself, was almost as worrying as the silence which had enveloped the house like a shroud for the past week - Erik has always valued his privacy above his life, and that he should simply leave the door swinging open for any curious stagehand who should venture down into the deepest catacombs of the Opéra was absolutely incredible. 

I entered cautiously, fearful that Erik might have set some ingenious trap against fools like myself, but my fears proved vain - the house still stood in darkness, and my search of the rooms yielded nothing but that damnable cat of his curled up on the piano stool, eyeing me with lazy contempt.

I finally found him in Christine's room, seated at her vanity table, staring hopelessly into a mirror without the mask and winding a necklace of hers restlessly through his fingers. He didn't seem to register my presence, even when I hesitantly reached out and took the mirror ... I broke it on the stones outside the house later that day and took the frame away to dispose of where he would not find it again.

It was better when he was in this state of dazed, paralysing shock ...

I went back the next day, half expecting him still to be sitting in the room he had furnished for her, staring vacantly at the walls as he retreated further and further inside his own head ... how wrong I was.

I could hear the cat wailing as I approached the house, an almost heartrending sound which might have stirred my pity had it not hissed with its customary bad-tempered hostility towards me as I entered, spitting and showing its claws as it had always done whenever either myself or Christine made our presence known.

I found him crumpled on Christine's bed where he had evidently collapsed the previous day, his breathing shallow and his form, if possible, even more emaciated than ever. It didn't really surprise me that he hadn't bothered with nonessentials like food since her desertion ...

For the next two days he slipped in and out of consciousness, his sleep fevered and interrupted with nightmares at distressingly regular intervals, his waking moments governed mainly by delirium ... I often wonder how I survived those days and the long nights. To see a soul in such torment, agony beyond expression and beyond all help and yet retain your sanity ...

The morning he woke up and, for the first time in two weeks, recognised me and remembered all that had occurred, he rose as if nothing had happened and proceeded to play the role of the perfect host, courteous and polite and beyond reproach in every way, thanking me for my help in taking care of Ayesha and making no other reference to the events of the past three weeks.

It wasn't until he believed I had gone that he finally broke down under the pressure of the repressed emotion and intense grief he would never forget, or truly recover from ... not even if his God's cruelty extended his life by another fifty years.

Enough regrets. I knew what I had to do.

Christine

Nadir re-entered the room about an hour later. He smiled briefly at me and offered me a hand to help me rise. I raised an eyebrow slightly in confusion ... I didn't want to leave now; if Erik should wake and find me gone again ...

"Please ..." he said politely. "Do come into the other room. I should like to speak with you, and ... although I'm sure some enjoy having an audience to their conversations, I fear I am not of their number."

Slightly surprised at his sudden formality and yet mildly amused by the idea that Erik could witness anything in his current state of oblivion, I accepted his hand and followed him into the drawing room, where he offered me a seat and walked over to stand by the dresser with his back to me.

He remained silent for a few moments, then turned to face me with what I can only describe as a sudden burst of determination. His first words caught me completely off balance.

"You're a free woman now," he said slowly. He hesitated slightly, then plunged forward. "Don't you think that perhaps ... perhaps it's time you told Erik something?"

I went cold and turned away to study a small ebony squirrel carved into the fireplace, touching my fingers lightly to the intricate relief of its tail.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said helplessly, silently praying that he would leave it at that and not press me further.

"Oh, please don't pretend to be dense, Christine, it doesn't suit you at all. Did it never occur to you that perhaps an impartial observer can see what Erik is too afraid ... too blind to see?" He sighed, and I could sense his frustration even across the gaping emptiness that separated us.

"Afraid?" I heard myself laugh with soft derision. "Erik has never been afraid of anything."

He let out a short laugh, a bitter, faintly sad sound utterly devoid of humour.

"No ..." he agreed. "Never anything on the face of this earth ..." He fell silent and I knew that he was thinking of Erik's continuous indifference to his fate and disregard for his own health ... those scars ...

"But he is afraid of you. Of what he feels for you ... he isn't strong enough to face having his heart broken again."

I shook my head, dismissing his words; I knew that Erik had long since ceased to care for me as anything in excess of the role of the daughter Fate had denied him. "You don't know that. It's not true." 

He caught hold of my arm, turning me, forcing me to meet his eyes. 

"No?" 

I closed my eyes, forcing back the tears pricking against my eyelids. A pitiful whisper escaped my lips. "Don't ..."

He sighed deeply and let go of my arm, taking a step back and crossing the room to stand with his back to me by the opposite wall.

"What are you so afraid of?" he asked quietly, without turning to look at me. "What makes you so blind?"

I looked up. "I don't understand."

He laughed slightly. "No ... that doesn't really surprise me. You and he are both extraordinarily bad at hiding your feelings, and yet you are both so incapable of recognising the same affections in each other ..."

"_What?_"

"Oh, Christine, don't be blind! He loves you as much as he ever did ... more than you can ever know." He turned back to look at me, his eyes filled with an emotion I could not comprehend, but the sincerity in his voice was irrefutable.

I stayed silent, staring down at my fingers ... was he mad, was he lying,_ was he right ...?_

"How do you know?" I asked, my voice cracking under the pressure of a sudden tide of emotion I could not suppress ... for all Erik's tuition, my acting is still as bad as ever it was!

"How do I know?" he repeated slowly. "Because I have two eyes and because I am able to use them in a way that neither you nor he seem capable of."

His eyes bored into mine, his words irrefutable, his tone brooking no denial. "He has killed for you ... he took you off the streets when you left the man for whom you had deserted him ..."

I sat down rather more suddenly than I had intended, my legs giving way beneath me. Ignoring my contemptible weakness, Nadir continued, his voice still gentle but with an irresistible note of command which reminded me absurdly of Erik's.

"And I know that you love him too." Seeing the look in my eyes, he held up one hand and shook his head. "Deny it to me if you must, but not to him ... he deserves more than that from you now."

I gripped my wrists in a futile attempt to stop myself from shaking. In less than one minute's worth of calculated emotional attack he had stripped away every one of my defences and forced me to face the cold reality of my own failings, both to myself and to Erik.

"What do you want me to say?" I whispered brokenly, trying to conceal my tears and failing miserably.

He sighed. "Do you love him?"

"You know I do," I managed through the ache in my throat, feeling my lungs constrict as I realised that this was the first time I had truly admitted it, even to myself ...

Feeling my throat tighten, I continued, "That's hardly the point though, is it?"

A voice came from the doorway, startling both myself and Nadir and causing us to spin around like guilty children playing truant.

"Oh no, my dear, I'm afraid I will have to contradict you on that point ... I don't think you could be more wrong if you tried."

Nadir and I exchanged frantic startled glances as he took a step forward into the room, his movements as graceful as ever, barely hampered by the deep knife wound which still traced his side.

Far too shocked to speak, I could do nothing but stare at him in wonder and sudden fear as he crossed the room to stand by the fireplace, his back rigid and his silhouette as impressive as ever.

"So, my dear?" he said, turning at last to face me. "Is there a matter we should discuss ... or am I perhaps misreading the situation again?"


	13. Finale

A/N - Well, here it is - the last chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed throughout the course of this story; that's Myotismon13, T'eyla Minh, Avelera, Felicia, Maya :), Angela, Sara, T'Res, AnandaStarChild, Chanita, Paige/ Whinnfaer, LadyRoquiesha, Moria, Jill, Peridot, Veronique, Rilar Cray, guenevereandromeda, Mulder&Scully'sBogusJourney, Moira Brennan, Laura Holmes, Chindra, Silver Space, Lisa, Alexis, Jedi Skysong, Magpie, Melissa, Rhia, KT Malfoy, L'ange de la Nuit, ink'n'imp, morgaine, snapdragon, Azaria, krazychibikatastrophe, Phantwo, isiswhit, Christine Persephone, Horserider, Lil' Nell, Rae, kelly, Nightshade Darkholme, Phantom of the Basement, Gremlin Raven, Hank Riddle, ImperialGirl, Jewel, ja ne, Melissa 'Darkheart' McLaren, Rai, Mitsukai.

Thank you all so so much! It really really does make my day to get lovely reviews from all you wonderful people. :) I love you all very very much.

I'm so sorry this has taken so long! But I find it so hard to actually make them open up and admit they care about each other ... damn insecurity complexes! 

I hope it's worth the wait. :)

I've had a few people ask me exactly why this fic is so cliché. I guess the answer is very simple; because that's how I wanted it. I wanted to take a very trite and overused plot (Raoul turns evil, beats up Christine -- returns to Erik and all live happily ever after) ... but to do it differently. Did I succeed? Tell me if you review! :)

Check out my new fic when it's up! (Or when my Muse stops being difficult and gives me something to work with ;)

Lisa; Um, yeah, I think he got changed ... much as I'd love to have him walking around topless (joke! don't kill me!) I don't really think that's him ... ;)

(Oh, I just had a thought - this is chapter thirteen! Do you think that's unlucky?!)

Love peace and E/C forever,

Cat

xxx

__

"True love is like ghosts, which everybody talks about and few have seen."

François de la Rochefoucauld 

Erik

The expressions of pure shock on their faces were really quite amusing; in other circumstances, I might have laughed. It would of course not have occurred to either of them, their both being inherently good people, that their conversation might have been overheard. Really, they hadn't been discreet at all, they deserved to have a thoroughly dishonourable person like me eavesdropping ...

Suddenly aware that my hands were shaking, I folded my arms beneath the cloak it had occurred to me to slip on before leaving the room; the conversation I had overheard was not the one I had feared it would be.

Perhaps it was ungenerous of me to put so little trust in Nadir, and after all the years we had known each other ... but I have less faith in human nature than almost anything else I have ever encountered, and the conversation I had overheard at the cafe had affected me more deeply than perhaps I had liked to admit.

I knew they had seen the paper announcing her husband's death; silently cursing myself for not destroying it as I should have done the moment I had satisfied my morbid curiosity, I had known with a sudden sick certainty that she would not be unattached long ...

She cast one frantic glance at Nadir and rose automatically, crossing the room in a few small, frightened steps and reaching out to brush my cloak away.

"Erik ..." She cast around for words then continued in a distinctly maternal vein; "You should be lying down, you need to rest ... how do you feel?"

I sighed internally; she was determined to make this difficult? Very well ...

I brushed off her anxious queries with an apathetic gesture of my hand, dismissing her concern and keeping her at arms' length. The look she gave me almost broke my heart; hurt and confused, like a small child being pushed away from anticipated affection. She turned and crossed the room, her voice sounding strangely distant, and I could sense her withdrawing from me, summoning all her reserve to stay detached and unhurt by my apparent coldness.

"You do realise that you've been stabbed?" she asked quietly, her back to me and her hair obscuring her face.

"It's nothing serious," I replied mildly. _I've had worse ..._

She laughed very softly, a sound utterly devoid of mirth that was almost more like a sob. Her retort surprised me; she doesn't get angry and snap at people, as a rule ...

"Oh, don't be impossible, Erik! Do you have any idea how worried we've been?"

"Really." I glanced at Nadir, who met my gaze, looking decidedly uncomfortable, a silent witness to emotion and bitterness he didn't understand.

She turned sharply, her face a picture of incredulity. 

"How can you say that?" I wanted to kick myself; she looked like a lost and forlorn little puppy upon rejection, and I cursed myself silently as I caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

She sighed, her anger dissipating as she sat down in a chair, her slight figure dwarfed by the high arms and imposing back and smoothed down her tangled cloud of hair, brushing it carelessly back over her shoulders as she buried her face in her hands.

I swore silently at myself, cursing the sarcasm in my nature that renders me unable to give a straight answer to anyone asking anything even resembling a direct question.

"Don't cry, my dear," I said softly. I hate to watch her cry ... 

I crossed the room, knelt in front of her, and handed her a handkerchief. However many crises she passes through, she has always been incapable of procuring a handkerchief and keeping it safe about her person for more than about ten minutes.

"I'm not crying," she managed.

I smiled slightly. "You know, my dear," I said mildly, "for an actress, you really are a very poor liar."

She smiled tremulously, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. Even when she has a handkerchief she is incapable of using it!

She sat very still for a few minutes, looking very small, as she recovered her composure, until suddenly Nadir spoke up. His voice gave me a start; I had quite forgotten he was in the room at all, and I would have credited him with better taste - and more prudent judgement - than to interfere in a situation such as this.

Christine

I looked up in slight surprise as Nadir made a quiet request of Erik, drawing him away from me over to the other side of the room.

Nadir addressed Erik softly in a foreign language, his voice questioning, in a tone which clearly anticipated a "yes" answer. Erik glanced briefly at me and replied in the same odd Oriental language, his tone wary but the answer clearly the one Nadir had expected.

Nadir was nodding, evidently satisfied by Erik's hesitant assent. His next question sounded almost more like a challenge than anything else. Erik reacted with a soft expletive, for once looking almost embarrassed, turning so that Nadir could no longer see his face. Nadir persisted, his voice soft but urgent, and suddenly I'd had enough.

"If you two don't stop I'll just scream!" I burst out. "I can't stand this; did no one ever tell you how rude it is to conduct private conversations with a third person in the room? If you must have your little arguments, please do it in a language I can understand!"

Erik turned to look at me, the eyes behind the mask quietly amused. 

"Forgive me, my dear," he said finally, a touch of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Nadir was just ... interfering in my life. As usual."

Nadir rolled his eyes and made a short comment in his own language under his breath which Erik studiously ignored.

I sighed and looked around the room.

"Nadir ..." I began finally. "I don't mean to be rude, but ..."

"Do get out," said Erik quietly, his back to both myself and Nadir as he faced the black fireplace.

Nadir sighed and glanced back at me. 

"Don't cross wires, mademoiselle," he said softly, before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

A heavy silence seemed to grow until I could stand it no longer.

"All right," I said finally. "Last question."

He raised one eyebrow, a signal for me to continue.

I drew a deep breath and began. "Do you love me?"

He looked up slowly and for once his defences seemed completely beaten down, his heart written in his eyes.

"Yes," he said, very softly. "Always." He turned away, and I could tell by the tremor of his shoulders that he was in tears.

I felt myself go limp with the most acute relief I had ever felt.

"Oh, my God ... thank you ..."

He looked back at me and suddenly, I knew I was going to cry. That he should still care, even a little ... after everything ...

I was aware that he was still watching me warily, waiting for my response to the confession left unsaid for so long, and with a sudden weak relief, I began to cry.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep, shuddering breath before rising and crossing the room to kneel beside me.

"Please don't cry," he said very softly, a trembling note of his own emotion wavering in his voice.

I looked down at him, and began to laugh through my tears with sheer relief. Even now, he misunderstood me ...

"You are ... _impossible!_" I managed finally, dropping to my knees beside him and burying my face in his starched white dress shirt, pulling him close to me with one arm around his neck.

I could feel him shaking as he put one arm around my shoulders, burying his face in my hair and breathing in deeply as if to calm himself.

"I don't understand," he murmured softly, drawing away to look at me and brushing a lock of hair out of my eyes.

"I do," I whispered, reaching up to his face. I slipped my fingers underneath the mask and pulled it gently away, ignoring his instinctive reaction to shy back. I touched his face lightly, brushing away the tears which spilled out from his yellow eyes.

He pulled me close again, his fingers stroking my hair with a gentle tenderness alien to his usual rigid self-control.

"I love you," I whispered into his shoulder, linking my fingers with his and feeling a tremor run through him at the words.

He was shaking all over by the time we drew apart.

Finally, he rose and walked over to the dresser, opening a drawer and withdrawing a small jewellery box.

He turned back to me and knelt beside me, taking my hand and stroking it with one long finger, not meeting my eyes.

"Christine ..."

He took a deep breath and opened the small black velvet jewellery box.

"Will you marry me?"

I stared at him for a moment in stunned silence, in which time his eyes took on a horrible flash of doubt, and I could tell he was steeling himself for my rejection and cursing himself for so far disregarding his own harsh boundaries. He closed his eyes and turned away, one hand reaching for the mask, before I caught his hand and tilted his face upward until his eyes met mine.

"Yes," I whispered.

He looked up at me for a moment in shocked uncertainty, then hesitantly reached out and slipped the plain gold ring onto my wedding finger.

I leaned forward and leaned my head against his chest, feeling his arms close around me as his breath escaped in one long sigh and he buried his face in my hair.

Nadir

I re-entered the room cautiously about an hour later, carrying cups of Erik's bizarre Russian tea.

I nearly dropped both cups at the sight which greeted me.

Erik and Christine were both seated on the floor next to one of the black armchairs, their arms wrapped around each other, Erik's face buried in her hair as she slept. Her breathing rose and fell in harmony with his as he rocked her gently back and forth.

As my eyes went over them one last time, I caught sight of a simple gold ring on the fourth finger of Christine's left hand. 

I turned and left the room, closing the door behind me and smiling slightly.

It was as it should be.

~ FIN ~


End file.
